Choosing the Road Less Traveled
by Keschte
Summary: A look at the events that might have inspired Col Hogan to stay in Stalag 13 and set up operations rather than escape and return to flying.
1. Chapter 1

Choosing the Road Less Traveled

By Keschte

A/N: I've recently rediscovered Hogan's Heroes and although I know it was written as a comedy, I got to wondering…how could something like their operation really have come about? In a real scenario, why would Col Hogan decide to stay and run an operation in a POW camp rather than escaping and returning to flying? Even if he got to Stalag 13 and saw the potential for such an operation, as a pilot and a senior leader it would have made more sense for him to do everything he could to get back in the air. So what happened? And how did he get buy-in from London and orders to stay? Kicking around some scenarios, I came up with an idea and this story is a result. And since my favorite character has always been Newkirk, naturally I had to make him play a major part in it all. In writing the first couple chapters, I hope folks don't think I made Col Hogan too out of character. Yes, he is a strong, confident, supremely capable man, but please forgive me for allowing him a bit of human weakness as he struggled to adjust to circumstances. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1

If you had to rate prisoner of war camps, Stalag 13 was far from being the worst. Even without having had the 'pleasure' of being a guest at other camps, Colonel Robert Hogan knew he was lucky to sent here after he'd been shot down. The food wasn't great, but there was usually enough of it. The barracks were roughly built and had countless gaps where icy wind blew in, but the prisoners were given a ration of wood that prevented them from freezing. And while the guards were strict and unfriendly, they weren't overly trigger happy or prone to beating prisoners at the least provocation. No, Hogan had heard enough horror stories to know that things could be much, much worse. But that knowledge didn't matter—all Hogan could think of was how very much he hated it and how very much he wanted to escape.

Hogan had only been a prisoner for six weeks, but in that time his mood had turned dark and morose. During the few rare moments when he was able to step back and look at himself objectively, he was disgusted with himself for allowing the current state of affairs to affect him so negatively—he was typically an optimistic, roll-with-the-punches sort who could turn any situation to his advantage. This feeling of being out of control and angry was foreign to him, but he simply hadn't been able to get his feet back under him. Before he could process the shock of being shot down, he'd been hit with the sorrow and guilt of knowing most of his crew had died in the crash. Then followed the alarming experience of being captured, terrifying and painful weeks of interrogation, and finally he was thrown into a prisoner of war camp where he'd been told he would sit out the remainder of the war. No, there was nothing redeeming about this situation. Nothing.

It was in that frame of mind that Hogan began day 22 of his stay at Stalag 13. It started out just like the day before, the day before that, and the day before that. Ever since he'd been brought to the camp three weeks ago, Hogan's life had taken on a spiritless, never ending sameness. The day would start with the camp's senior non-commissioned officer and primary guard assigned to Barracks 2, Oberfeldwebel Zimmerman, flinging open the door to the barracks and repeatedly striking the butt of his rifle against the wooden bunks, all the while shouting at the men. It was time for roll call. The men would tumble out of their bunks and pull on their coats while racing outside to stand in formation and be counted. It was the end of November and a bitter cold had already set in, making it a special misery to endure. Next, the men made their way to the mess hall where they were served a bland, tasteless, and usually cold breakfast, before they went back to their barracks where they would while away the time waiting for their next meal. Some men read books they'd received in Red Cross packages, some played cards, and some would use precious scraps of paper to write letters home to loved ones. But no matter how they chose to spend their time, the men's attitudes remained listless, joyless—nothing seemed to penetrate the dispirited atmosphere that shrouded the camp.

Hogan knew it was that atmosphere that got to him the most. Of course, he'd hardly assumed being a prisoner would be fun and games, but when he'd previously imagined life in a POW camp, he'd always expected the prisoners to pull together, to form the bonds of brotherhood that only adversity can inspire. But so far he had seen only limited acts of friendship and none of the dauntless, laugh-in-the-face-of-danger spirit he'd grown used to in the members of his flying group. The loss of their companionship, especially that of his crew, filled him with a deep, inner ache. He knew it was selfish to want any of his crew to share this miserable existence with him, but how he wished that at least one of them had been assigned here. But no, the remaining crew had all been scattered and he was alone, so it was a very unhappy colonel who sat in his office after breakfast on that twenty-second day, desperately trying to think of a way to escape and rejoin a world where he felt whole.

A knock on the door drew him temporarily out of his depressed musings.

"Yes?"

The door opened and RAF Group Captain John Hughes entered. It was a strange courtesy, since Hogan and Hughes both shared the room and, before Hogan had arrived, Hughes had been senior POW and this had been his room alone. But now Hogan was in command and Hughes was positively punctilious about military courtesies.

"Sorry to disturb you," Hughes said politely as he grabbed his coat from a hook on the wall. "I thought I'd take Sergeants Wells and Mitchell and visit some of the other barracks. Keeps the lads on their toes, you know."

Hogan acknowledged the man's comments with a nod, but said nothing. A part of him recognized that _he_ should be visiting the men and was annoyed that he couldn't make himself care. But any guilt was easily squashed by his need for solitude to work on his escape plan. He could, he decided, do more for these men by returning to flying, perhaps helping to shorten the war with a few well-placed bombs. There was nothing useful he could do here.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed, unable to completely lie to himself. That wasn't strictly true. Several months ago, a small group of officers had been briefed on a top secret mission—a mission that would only be possible when and if they were shot down. Headquarters wanted to establish several special units within Germany to work with the underground on sabotage and helping allies caught behind enemy lines return home. The men were told that, if shot down and captured, they were to assess their situation and, if possible, try to set up one of these special units from within a POW camp. It was an audacious plan, known only to a handful of high-ranking officials and the carefully-selected group of men being briefed. The risk was great, but a POW camp would be the perfect cover if the right leader could establish such an operation.

Sixteen men had been briefed and provided with training on sabotage operations, escape procedures, and working with the underground. There were four men before Hogan to be shot down. One had died when his plane crashed. The three others had been captured and placed in POW camps. Each, though, had chosen to escape and make their way back to England, using the techniques and contacts they'd been taught. They had given various explanations of why their camps wouldn't have worked, but in truth there had been talk amongst the others that maybe those men had exaggerated unfavorable conditions so they could return. Although he hadn't participated in the rumors, Hogan himself had wondered about them as well, feeling the men hadn't given it their best shot.

Now, however, he saw everything in a different light. Hogan was determined to follow their example and to hell with what anyone else thought. Stalag 13 was not the right location and it wasn't worth even trying to set up an operation. True, Hogan was confident he could easily manipulate Kommandant Klink, the German officer who'd assumed command of the camp only a few months before he'd arrived. But to make the plan work, Hogan would need a team of brave and dedicated men, and those were in short supply. The men were not an unruly rabble—far from it. Group Captain Hughes, who Hogan outranked by only a few months, had been the senior officer before Hogan arrived and had established good, tight discipline. But Hogan had never seen a more lackluster group of individuals anywhere. They seemed wary and tense. They had no spirit. No fire. Men like this would never be able to do the kind of work necessary for a sabotage unit. No, Stalag 13 wouldn't do. Hogan would go back to flying, Hughes could take over again as senior POW, and all would be right again with the world.

Telling himself that the prisoners in this camp had never been _his_ men, Hogan pushed aside annoying twinges of conscious for essentially abandoning them and went outside to see if he could scope out a possible escape route. He was surprised to see several groups of men standing in small clusters, visiting with each other despite the cold. The men in his barracks typically stayed indoors...he hadn't realized those in other barracks didn't all do the same.

He was glad to see them, though. Not because it changed his mind about the kinds of men they were, but because he could use them. Simply wandering around camp alone might raise some flags, but going from group to group, talking to the men, was something a good commander _should_ do, so it wouldn't arouse any suspicions. He stopped and chatted with a couple of groups as part of his cover, curiously pleased to find himself enjoying the social interaction. He hadn't realized just how isolated he'd felt and it put him in a better mood than he'd been in since arriving. After speaking with them, he went on again, still not forgetting why he was out there in the first place. But then Hogan came across a third group, this time tucked in a shadowy corner between two barracks. And if that wasn't suspicious enough, there was a German guard with them.

Instantly on the alert, Hogan ducked into some shadows to watch. There were four men in all, the little Frenchman...what was his name again?...Chapman, a rough-edged RAF corporal from Hogan's barracks; another young Brit whose name he also couldn't remember; and the big guard, Shultz, from Barracks 4. What were prisoners doing sneaking around and talking with the enemy? He was determined to find out. Regardless of how disconnected he felt, he was still an officer and had a duty to ensure these men weren't fraternizing with an enemy or selling secrets.

Hogan kept out of sight as he continued to watch. He wasn't close enough to hear what was being said, but from the motions, it looked like the three prisoners were trying to give Shultz something. They were smiling, gesturing, clearly cajoling. His anger grew as he watched them treat the enemy like an old buddy. Finally, Shultz nodded and appeared to agree to whatever they had asked of him. It was time to put a stop to this.

Stepping out into the sun, he masked his anger and approached the group.

"Hello men, what's going on?" he asked casually.

If Hogan hadn't been so disgusted with the prisoners for fraternizing with one of the very men keeping them prisoner, he would have been amused at the guilty expression of...not the men...but the guard.

Sergeant Shultz's eyes popped wide as the American colonel came over, clearly alarmed.

"C..Colonel…"

Overriding Shultz's stuttering, the Frenchman, piped up. "Nothing, colonel. Just talking to Shultzie, here," he said with an innocent smile.

Hogan couldn't prevent a small scowl at that. Pet names for the guards? Considering the guard's anxious expression, he decided he could safely ignore him for now, so instead he looked at the Frenchman, asking pointedly, "Who?"

"Sorry, colonel. I meant Sergeant Shultz here. We were just talking to him," the Frenchman said, still with that pleasant smile. The fact that he could look so innocent irritated Hogan even more.

"I see," he said dryly. "You were just talking to Sergeant Shultz. And what was your name again?"

Maintaining his nonchalant air, the Frenchman answered, "LeBeau...Corporal Louis LeBeau, sir."

"Well Corporal LeBeau, that's very…friendly of you."

None of the men could mistake Hogan's sharp tone for anything but disapproval, but the prisoners were playing it cool, all three continuing to look at him innocently. The guard, Shultz, however, was not so calm.

"I have to go finish my rounds," he said nervously and began to walk away. Then he stopped and turned back, adding in an apologetic tone, "Maybe some other time, LeBeau."

More certain than ever that these men were up to no good, when Shultz was out of sight Hogan allowed his irritation to show.

"All right. Would one of you care to explain just what that was about? 'Maybe some other time?'"

"It was nothing," protested LeBeau.

"Nothing? Making deals with the enemy? You call that nothing?"

The looks of innocence disappeared, but they all shrugged and nodded when LeBeau reiterated that nothing was going on. Hogan narrowed his eyes and turned to one of the Brits, a young RAF man who looked like he should still be in school. He was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to hide something behind his back.

"What do you have?"

"N...nothing, sir."

Hogan's earlier good mood was long forgotten by this point and once again he felt anger and disgust at being stuck here with these…these worthless excuses for soldiers who now were lying to their commanding officer.

"Try again," he said coldly. "Hand it over and don't even _think_ about telling me it's 'nothing' again."

The kid swallowed, his eyes large, but even then he looked to his older companions for guidance rather than immediately obeying.

"NOW," snarled Hogan, prompting the kid to jump and bring his hand around.

Hogan looked at what he'd hidden. It was an old cap filled with cigarettes, matches, biscuits, cheese, and several candy bars. They were bribing the guard?

"You were giving these to the enemy? For what?"

His own expression cool now, LeBeau sniffed. "Enemy? Shultz? Maybe he is German, but he is less of an enemy than others I could name."

"Careful," Hogan warned sharply. "You're a step away from insubordination."

LeBeau shrugged and something rapidly in his native tongue. After pausing _just_ long enough, he translated with the hint of a smirk, "Sorry, I didn't realize you didn't understand French. I was saying we weren't really giving it to him, he was just delivering it for us, so we didn't think there was anything to explain."

Hogan bit back his first inclination, which was to tear a strip of hide off this annoying Frenchman, but decided he'd rather get straight answers right now. Instead, he abruptly turned to the kid.

"You. What's your name?"

Unable to follow LeBeau's example of nonchalance, the young RAF man's eyes widened and answered in almost a squeak, "Aircraftsmen Collins, sir. RAF.

Hogan nodded. "Okay Collins," he said, his tone no nonsense, "Why were you using an enemy to deliver goods that I assume came from our Red Cross packages? Who was he taking them to?"

Collins looked once more to his older companions before licking his lips and answering, "Sir…"

When he hesitated yet again, Hogan was through.

There was no mistaking his anger or authority as he snapped, "Enough of this. You tell me what you were doing right now, or I'm sure Group Captain Hughes can tell me how discipline works in this camp. Don't push it."

The men's reaction to his threat was not at all what he'd expected. Far from tripping over themselves in order to give him answers, as one their expressions became closed off and grim, even the youngster Collins.

Hogan blinked, but kept otherwise himself from showing his surprise. Yet again, these men didn't react like any of the ones he'd led before. What was going on in this stupid camp!

Then Corporal Chapman, who hadn't said anything until now, spoke up, a thick cockney accent coloring his words, "Well, no surprise 'ere, is it lads? Looks like they're cut from the same cloth after all. You want to throw us to ol' 'ughes, _colonel,_ you go right ahead." The contempt he put on Hogan's rank was almost a physical slap, but the man kept talking before Hogan could react. "Not like it'd be the first time 'e's had 'is 'ooks in us. 'Sides, might be doin' us a favor if 'e threw us in the cooler. Maybe we'd get a chance to see 'ow Newkirk's 'oldin' up. That were the whole point, anyway."

Despite his anger, Hogan was nothing if not quick. Something more was going on here than improper fraternizing and grossly disrespectful attitudes. Something he hoped might finally give him a glimpse into the undercurrents he'd been feeling ever since he arrived.

Focusing on the last thing Chapman had said, he asked, "Newkirk?"

Once again LeBeau answered. "Oui. Corporal Newkirk. Maybe a couple of the candy bars were for Shultz, but everything else was for him. He's been stuck in the cooler for months and Shultz was going to bring him something for us since he's going to be guarding it this afternoon. That is all. It was nothing for you to worry about. But now it's ruined. We've been working on Shultz for weeks, but who knows how long it will be before he goes back again or if he'll still be willing to help us. Poor Newkirk."

Hogan frowned. Newkirk? Why didn't he know about this man? He'd met all the prisoners when Hughes had formally brought him around and introduced them. He didn't pretend to know them all by name and while it was possible he'd met a 'Newkirk,' he was certain there had been no mention of anyone in the cooler, let alone anyone locked up for months.

Young Collins broke into his thoughts, "Sir, we weren't doing wrong, honest. We were just looking out for a mate."

Hogan looked at the three. Chapman looked angry, LeBeau more upset than anything else, and Collins worried.

After an unmistakable warning look for Chapman to curb his attitude, Hogan clarified, "You were trying to get the guard to take something to a prisoner, who's been in the cooler for _months_?"

All three nodded, LeBeau adding, "Oui, it's been over ten weeks already, and we wanted to make sure he's alright—the cooler is a nasty place even for a day."

"And no one's seen him in all that time?" Hogan questioned, not happy to think of any of the men locked away for that long without someone verifying he was okay.

Chapman answered this time, jaws tight as he hissed in an ugly tone, "Not any of 'is mates. E's in solitary. I expect only a few guards have seen 'im since they took 'im away. 'o knows what shape 'e's in by now." Then he did something that surprised Hogan. Chapman closed his eyes for a moment, visibly struggling to control himself, then opened them and said much more calmly, "No one deserves to be locked up like that. It ain't fit for animals, let alone a 'uman. Newkirk's a good bloke and we only wanted to give 'im a bit o' cheer and let 'im know 'e still had friends thinkin' about 'im." Shocking Hogan even further, Chapman swallowed his pride and added pleadingly, "Please, sir. Can't you do somethin'?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Aack. Forgot the disclaimer on the first chapter. Don't own any of this...only taking the fellas out of the box for awhile to play. Will put them back once I'm done.

Chapter 2

Col Hogan awoke on day 23 with a refreshingly new outlook. For the first time since he'd arrived, he found himself thinking about something other than escaping. The previous day's encounter stirred something in him he never thought he'd feel in this wretched place—a tenuous connection to these men. Not only did the plight of the man trapped in the cooler spark his interest, but so did the men who were willing to risk bribing a guard for their friend. He wasn't changing his mind about leaving, but was gratified to find at least some of these men did look out for each other. Moreover, he couldn't deny that Group Captain Hughes' response to his inquiry about Corporal Newkirk aroused his curiosity.

After lunch yesterday, Hogan had mentioned his discussion regarding a prisoner in the cooler and found Hughes' reaction extraordinary. Up to this point, Hughes had been the model of British restraint. He was polished, polite, observed military courtesies to the letter, and nothing seemed to ruffle him. Hogan had to also admit he found the man standoffish at times, but had envied his fellow officer's ability to behave as if being captured by the enemy and placed in a POW camp was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Therefore, he never expected Hughes' reaction to his questioning.

OoOoOoOo

_The previous day..._

A pale light from the weak afternoon sun lit Stalag 13's senior POWs as they sat in their room after lunch. It was the first time Hogan had been alone with Hughes since he'd heard about Newkirk, and he wanted to get the man's take on the situation.

"John, I was talking with a few of the men earlier and they told me about a prisoner who's been in the cooler for nearly 3 months. Someone named Newkirk. What do you know about it? Is it true?"

Hughes stiffened slightly, then relaxed and said indifferently, "It's true enough. Corporal Newkirk has been in the cooler since sometime in mid-September. But you needn't concern yourself about him, old chap. He's right where he belongs."

Hogan's first reaction to Hughes' calm response was relief. From the men's attitudes earlier, he'd suspected the Germans had been mistreating the man. Still, that was an awfully long time to be locked up.

"Mid-September? Why haven't I heard about him before? What did he do?"

"What did he do?" Hughes sniffed unamusedly. "What didn't he do?"

"Come on John, that's not terribly descriptive. Care to elaborate?"

Hughes' lip curled. "Hogan, the man is bad news. Take my word for it. Let it go and be grateful he's locked away."

Hogan was annoyed with non-answers. First the men outside and now Hughes—what was with people in this camp anyway? Still, Hughes was a fellow officer, so he kept his tone even as he said, "They also said he was in solitary. Seems a bit harsh. He must have done something pretty bad to be locked away from everyone that long. What...did...he...do?"

Hughes shoved his chair back and shot to his feet.

"If you must know the man's a criminal…a thief," Hughes spat. "He's a liar. He's a gambler. He starts fights. He arouses dissention. He's a loud-mouthed, insubordinate, East End piece of trash troublemaker who was single-handedly responsible for more breaches of discipline than all the rest of the men combined!"

Hogan looked at Hughes in astonishment. As the man spoke, his face infused with red and his voice grew louder and louder until he was nearly shouting.

"Uh…okay." Hogan fought to keep a smile off his face. Seeing the prim and proper Group Captain Hughes lose control and stand there with his red face twitching in agitation was the funniest thing he'd seen in awhile. Although unexpected, Hogan was grateful for a reminder that it was possible to find humor in most any situation.

"So he's not quite the model prisoner," Hogan added dryly, enjoying the chance to lighten the mood. "I'd like to visit this desperado, though. Check on his condition."

If anything, Hughes' face got redder.

"You're not listening Hogan. That man is…is a waste of human flesh," he spat. "It doesn't matter what his condition is…trust me, it'd be better off for all of us if he never came out at all and if I have my way, I'll see to it he rots in there and never again sees the light of day."

Hogan's amusement evaporated with the venom Hughes exuded. So much for finding humor...he should have known it wasn't possible in a place like this. What on earth could the corporal have done to cause Hughes to react so violently? He considered his desire to see to Newkirk's well being. Was Hughes right? Should he forget about the man and let him 'rot' as Hughes put it? No, he still wanted to check on him. Just because he hated this place didn't mean he'd forgotten his duty, and besides, now he was dying with curiosity to meet the man who could make Hughes lose his cool.

"Well, after that, now I've really got to visit this guy," Hogan said calmly. "You'll have to give me the specifics some time, you know. But I still think his situation merits a visit. If nothing else, I've met all the rest of the men in camp, and it's my duty to see him and make sure he's being treated properly."

Hughes spat out a few shocking suggestions as to what kind of treatment the man deserved, but after being reminded that he, Hogan, was now senior POW, Hughes finally agreed to arrange for the two of them to visit the cooler the next day.

Hogan's talk later on with Corporal Chapman went much better. He would have liked to speak to all three of the men, including LeBeau and Collins, but didn't cross paths with the others at dinner so he decided to speak to Chapman alone.

Keeping in mind Hughes' earlier reaction to the topic of Newkirk, he went out to the main barracks room to speak to Chapman rather than have the discussion in front of Hughes.

Pulling the Englishman off to the side, he said, "I wanted to let you know I've arranged to see Corporal Newkirk tomorrow. As senior officer, they agreed to let me visit and make sure he's okay. I know you were anxious to get a message to him, so if you'd like, I'd be happy to pass one on for you."

Hogan wasn't ready for the change his words made in Chapman. Since he'd arrived, he'd become used to the man's muttered comments, his disdainful looks whenever an officer was around, his barely contained hostility. But with Hogan's simple words, pleasure washed over the man's face and the smile Chapman gave him was the first genuinely friendly look Hogan had seen in ages.

"Well, that's a bit of all right, it is. I didn't think you'd really do it," Chapman said, grinning. "I know 'e'll be real glad to see you. Newkirk likes being around people, 'e does, so 'e'll be pleased as punch to see a friendly face. If you could, you think you might tell 'im ol' Chappy and 'is mates are thinkin' of 'im? And we've got a new deck of cards we're holding on to just for when he gets out."

"I'll be sure to let him know," Hogan said with a smile of his own. Like yesterday, he was caught off guard at how much a simple, friendly encounter made him realize just how cut off he'd been feeling. Spontaneously, he added, "Sounds like he's got some good friends waiting for him."

Apparently warmed by Hogan's response, Chapman added with a hint of respect Hogan had never thought to see from him, "We're 'is mates. And we 'preciate you talkin' to 'im for us, sir. If anyone can make it out o' there with 'is 'ead on straight, it'd be Newkirk. But it's got to wear on 'im, so maybe between your visit and Christmas comin' up, it'll give 'im a spot of cheer."

"Christmas?" Hogan blinked. Lost in his dark mood over the past few weeks, he'd put it out of his thoughts entirely. He couldn't believe it was just around the corner.

Misunderstanding it as a request to elaborate, Chapman nodded. "That's right, sir. We was hopin' maybe 'e could be released before then." Emboldened by the tone of the discussion, he added, "Think you might talk to the kommandant and see about getting' 'im out before Christmas? Would be right nice to 'ave 'im back with 'is mates instead o' locked up in that 'ole by 'imself."

Returning to the present, Hogan shook his head and said with a light smile, "Well, I can't make any promises on getting him out by Christmas, but I'll consider it and in the meantime pass on your message to him. How's that?"

Accepting Hogan's compromise, Chapman nodded pleasantly and said, "That's more than we'd had before, sir. I'll pass on the news to the lads."

OoOoOoOo

_Current day..._

Thus it was that after breakfast, Col Hogan and Group Captain Hughes found themselves heading to the cooler, escorted by Sergeant Zimmerman.

As they walked, Hogan, still curious, said, "You haven't told me the details on this character we're about to see, John. Just what _did_ he do to get locked up so long?"

Hughes, his poise firmly back in place, answered calmly this time, "He's done everything in the book at one time or another outside of murder, and I wouldn't even put that past him. This particular time, however, he was caught stealing. Stole a young private's package from home before it was delivered to him, took out a cake the lad's sister had sent, and he and his friends proceeded to devour it, not leaving even a crumb for the poor boy. It was the first package the private had received from home and he was quite upset by the whole thing. Newkirk didn't even deny he took it. Showed no remorse whatsoever, in fact he laughed when confronted. So Kommandant Klink sentenced him to 60 days in the cooler."

"60 days? But it's been longer than that."

"Yes. His stay was extended based on my recommendation. After I explained to the kommandant how there would be more trouble the minute Newkirk was released, he decided to see if a longer stay in the cooler might teach him a lesson. So for now, his stay is indefinite, until the kommandant decides to let him go."

Hogan scowled. He didn't like the idea of a POW being kept locked up without any plan for release, especially in solitary. Then again, he liked even less the idea of a man stealing from his fellow prisoners. He decided to wait until he met him to form a final opinion on the whole mess.

Encouraged that Hogan hadn't started spouting nonsense about letting Newkirk out, Hughes continued, "The man is irredeemable, I'm afraid. One of society's bits of trash that's far better off behind bars than contaminating the rest of us."

Hogan grunted a non-committal reply and they were silent until they arrived at the gate that barricaded the cooler from the rest of the camp. Zimmerman spoke to the guard, and the men were ushered through.

When Hogan entered the building, his undecided thoughts regarding Hughes' animosity towards Newkirk and the man in question himself were swept aside as new input bombarded his senses. Zimmerman unlocked a heavy door, then led the way down a steep set of stairs into a dark, damp, and bitterly cold basement. Their footsteps echoed loudly off the grey walls, and Hogan shivered as the cold seeped into his pores. With every step he was filled with a growing urge to turn around and march right back into the sunshine. It wasn't only the cold that caused him to shudder—the very air felt like it was pressing down on him and Hogan couldn't help but be glad it wasn't him trapped in here. And that was before he entered the hall with the cells. It was a corridor containing a row of four heavy metal doors lining each side of the hall, with small windows at eye level in the doors. The tiny windows were open for now, but there were small metal plates that could be slid across them, completely shutting off whoever was inside. Hogan glanced in one as he passed. The cells were austere, nearly empty, with only a cot and a stool in each—tiny holes of misery designed to steal a man's soul.

They didn't stop at any of these cells, however, and instead continued to the end of the hall where Hogan noted another passage leading off to the right. He could see his breath as he walked and realized that the one woodstove they'd passed at the foot of the stairs provided the only heat for this entire underground area. LeBeau had been right when he'd said this wasn't a place anyone would want to stay, not even for a day.

If he thought the outer cells were bad, though, it was even bleaker when he turned the corner. The last passage led to a small cell tucked away at the end of the hall, but this one wasn't a closed-off room with a heavy door...this one looked more like a traditional prison cell with a wall of iron bars across the front of it. Somehow, it seemed even more hopeless than the others and Hogan frowned at the thought of an allied POW being locked away here. Far worse, as Hogan approached the cell he was hit by an overwhelming stench of unwashed body odor, waste, vomit, and several other things he couldn't and didn't want to identify. The smell was so thick he could practically taste it and it was all he could do to keep his breakfast from rising. He blew out his breath forcefully to push back his revulsion, his earlier urge to leave growing to alarming proportions.

To Hogan's annoyance, Hughes didn't seem similarly affected. Maybe he was used to this, or maybe he was made of tougher stuff. Hogan didn't care. He didn't want to get to a point where a trip into hell was commonplace or where he could shrug off the idea of being caged in this filthy hole.

Trying not to breathe through his nose, Hogan and the others approached cell. He was surprised to see no movement from inside. Hogan rapidly studied the shadowed cell, lit only by a dim, naked bulb in the hallway. There was a old bucket in the far corner, presumably for waste; a raised wooden slab with a thin mattress on top that was clearly a bed; and an undefined lump on top of the mattress which Hogan assumed was the prisoner he'd come to see. There was nothing else in the cell and Hogan wondered how one could stay here for any length of time without losing his mind.

He jumped when the guard banged on the bars with the butt of his rifle, snarling something in German. The lump on the hard cot didn't move. Shouting again in German, Zimmerman beat on the bars more forcefully and then Hogan heard an annoyed, surprisingly strong voice respond.

"Leave off, Fritzie. I know it ain't feedin' time at the ruddy zoo, yet."

Zimmerman banged on the bars again and snarled something else in his usual harsh voice.

The sarcastic rejoinder was even louder this time. "Bloody charmin'. Should've warned me I was going to 'ave visitors…I would've put on some tea."

In the back of his mind, Hogan took a moment to realize that the man...Newkirk presumably...had understood the German guard, but then he was distracted by the man himself, who rolled off the bed and slowly stood up before sauntering over to the bars.

Hogan's first glimpse of Newkirk wasn't what he'd expected, although to be honest, he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Logically, Hogan knew anyone locked away for months would hardly look their best, but he was still taken aback at the man's appearance. It was clear he hadn't been let out of his cell since he'd been locked in-the man was absolutely filthy, smelly, his face covered by a scruffy beard and a tangle of hair which was just long enough to curl out from beneath a grimy old stocking cap. His uniform, if you could call it that, was in pathetic condition and anything but regulation. Hogan could still tell that it had started out as an RAF uniform, but now it was partly covered by a mishmash of layers, pieces from other service uniforms, and to top it all off, a pair of socks over the man's hands. In any other setting he would have looked ridiculous, but in these conditions it only added to the desperate appearance of the man. For, despite trying to hide it behind a smirk, Newkirk did have a troubled, edgy look about him. His eyes, sparking with an unexpected intelligence, radiated a guardedness as he stared at Hogan from a thin and ghostly pale face.

Apparently Newkirk finished his own appraisal before Hogan finished his, for abruptly the man sniffed contemptuously and shook his head. His expression darkening into a look of hate as he turned to Hughes.

"Found yourself another bloody officer, did you? And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this mornin'? Come to show 'im what 'appens if 'e steps out of line? Or maybe you're just 'ere to show off your 'andiwork to your newest lackey," he said sarcastically.

Hogan stared at the prisoner. Again, this man wasn't what he expected. Considering Hughes' warnings, the rudeness and sarcasm weren't surprising, but after just a few minutes in the cooler, Hogan had expected to find anyone stuck here for any length of time to be weak, broken by his time in this living hell. In spite of himself, Hogan found himself intrigued by a man who could still show spirit in this place.

Hughes, of course, didn't see it that way. He sneered and said, "What did I tell you, Hogan. This man is a disgrace to the uniform—an embarrassment to the entire British Empire. Now you've seen him. Shall we get out of here?"

Hogan shook his head, keeping his eyes on Newkirk, who was still glaring at Hughes. No, he was here now and wasn't about to be rushed.

"Not yet," he said, calmly dismissing Hughes, then addressed the man in the cell. "I'm Colonel Robert Hogan, US Army Air Corps. The new senior POW." He paused and added, "I've been meeting all the men in camp...you're the last. I understand you're Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF?"

"That's right." Newkirk raised his eyebrows as he looked at the colonel, who, apparently outranked Hughes. He stepped forward and gripped the bars, a renewed interest in the man in front of him.

Hogan started to move closer himself, but Hughes' shout stopped him.

"Stop! Best not get too close unless you fancy a trip to the delousing station. The man's covered with vermin."

Involuntarily, Hogan stepped back. He checked himself almost instantly, but knew it was too late and cursed himself. Hughes' observation was undoubtedly true, but backing away like that was unconscionably rude to the man behind the bars and Hogan kicked himself for his uncharacteristic lack of control. This place had gotten under his skin more than he'd realized.

Newkirk picked up on the insult right away and any previous lightening of his expression disappeared. "There you go. Don't want to get too close," he sneered. "Never know what you might catch, eh? Best be off with you then."

Hogan, not sure he ever had it in the first place, tried to regain control of the situation.

"I'm not ready to leave yet. Not done here."

"No? And just what the ruddy 'ell d'you want?" Newkirk snapped, glaring at the two officers.

Purposely ignoring Hughes' warning, Hogan stepped right up to the bars and said, "My duty is to ensure the men in this camp are well cared for. The Geneva Conventions dictate certain standards and I'm here to make sure you're being treated fairly."

Even to Hogan's ears, his words sounded stilted and absurd considering the conditions, but this man, this place unnerved him and his usual eloquence deserted him.

Newkirk laughed bitterly. His eyes shifted to Hughes, then back again. "Jolly good for you, mate. Well, now you've seen for yourself they're takin' right good care of me. Got me a private room an' all. What more could a man ask for?"

Determined not to let Newkirk's attitude throw him off his stride even more, Hogan persisted, "Are you warm enough? Getting enough food?"

"You really are a piece of work, aren't you?" Newkirk said, shaking his head in disbelief at the daft American officer who thought he'd come down and pretend like he actually cared.

"Corporal…" Hogan warned.

Rolling his eyes, Newkirk responded. "Right...this place 'ere is a palace. I get regular gourmet meals every night. In fact, I 'ear there's a nice roasted lamb on the menu for this evening. I 'aven't checked the wine or dessert lists yet..I'll 'ave to get back to you on that." He paused, then dropped the sarcasm and added contemptuously, "Oh bloody 'ell, what do you think I eat? Whatever slop they give me and I'm glad enough for it. And am I warm enough? You're a 'alf wit, that's what! Would you look at 'ow I'm dressed? Blimey, you don't 'ave to 'ave brains to be an officer, do you?"

Hogan sucked in a deep breath, keeping his temper, but just barely. He'd given Newkirk a bit of rope due to his circumstances, but he was fed up with the man's insolence.

"I'm trying to help you," Hogan said, clenching his teeth. "You think you can, just for a moment, lose the attitude and remember you're still a soldier?"

"Still a soldier?" Newkirk laughed derisively. "Mate, you really are crackers if you think I care."

"Hogan, isn't this enough? Really, you're not going to get any civilized behavior out of this one," Hughes interrupted. "Come. You've seen him now. We should go."

Hogan turned to him. He'd almost forgotten the other men were there, caught up as he was with the man in the cell. Sergeant Zimmerman was also looking at him, leaning against the wall and smirking. No, he wasn't going to let the smart mouthed punk in the cell win this round.

"Just a minute," Hogan said tightly to Hughes, before turning back to Newkirk.

"You may have forgotten your oath and your duty, but that's not way things work. No matter what you think, you're still under orders. So when I ask you a question, I expect a respectful answer, got it?"

Newkirk spat at Hogan, barely missing the colonel's shoe. "That's what I think of your orders, _colonel_. I don't even know why the 'ell I'm standin' 'ere listenin' to your bloody questions. Why don't you bugger off and go bother somebody else."

With that, Newkirk turned his back and shuffled back to bunk, dropping down heavily on it.

Hogan was seething. Never had any soldier been as grossly disrespectful to him as this man. Hughes had been right, after all.

"That's enough, corporal...don't push me," Hogan warned, sounding more like a commanding officer than he had since being shot down.

Newkirk apparently, though, wasn't impressed. The pale light caught the glitter of anger in his eyes as once again he laughed. It was an ugly sound, harsh and mocking.

"You think I'm worried about what you'll do to me?" he jeered. Then his voice deepened, pure hate coming through. "And what's your plan? Take away me privileges? Or maybe cut me rations? Keep me mail from me? 'ow about lockin' me in the cooler? Oh 'ere's a thought, put me in solitary with only vermin and a few ruddy guards for company, and then throwin' away the key. No wait. That's right. It's all been done and more, mate. There's nothin' you can do short of shootin' me and that might be a kindness. So unless your plan is a firin' squad at dawn, sod off and let me sleep."

Giving his visitors a one-finger salute, Newkirk rolled over and pulled a thin blanket over his shoulders. Clearly, they were dismissed.

Hogan clenched his jaws, speechless at the utter contempt displayed by the Englishman. He'd dealt with discipline problems before, but Newkirk was in whole league by himself. Moreover, it burned inside that he was right...there was precious little Hogan could do to him and the bastard knew it.

Without saying another word, Hogan whirled around and brushed past Hughes and Zimmerman. He was done with this place. He was done with this man.

He was so livid that he didn't even remember leaving the building, coming back to reality when he reached the outdoors and sucked in a breath of fresh air.

"I hate to say I told you so," said Hughes lightly. "But the fact is the man is street trash who is right where he belongs."

Nodding sharply, Hogan answered, "You're right, John. And I'd never have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. The man is like no one I've ever had to deal with. Yep...you called it. He can stay there until he rots."

Hogan shook his head as he continued to walk purposely towards the barracks. He could just picture the scene if that rude, undisciplined, pathetic excuse of a corporal was ever let out. He'd be there, rousing up the men, inciting trouble, encouraging contempt and disrespect for the very officers trying to keep control in this uncontrollable situation. As if there weren't enough problems already. The men were barely civil as it was. Just look at their behavior yesterday when Hogan confronted the three men outside. Chapman, for instance…Hogan almost tripped. Chapman. He'd promised the man he would pass on a message to Newkirk and he'd completely forgotten. Great. Just great.

This whole place was wrong. He felt sullied by the visit to the cooler and now he had to face the men and admit he'd broken his promise. Dammit!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Life didn't get any easier for Col Hogan following his unpleasant visit to the cooler. Corporal Chapman and several other men were waiting at the barracks door when Hogan returned, looking for news on their friend. Unfortunately, Hogan hadn't had time to cool down.

"Colonel, did you see 'im? Is 'e doin' alright?"

Hogan had intended to go straight to his room—he wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, _especially_ about Newkirk—so when Chapman stepped in front of him, he didn't care how impatient he sounded.

"Yes, I saw him. He's fine. Excuse me."

Chapman's face clouded at the sharp tone and when Hogan tried to move past him, he edged over a bit, keeping in his way.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but no one except the guards 'ave seen 'im since 'e was taken away. Can't you tell us more?" he said, his tone cool, but worry for his friend keeping him polite.

Although the adrenaline was still pumping though Hogan's veins, he caught the change and knew he should have been more careful. He wanted to snap at Chapman for even asking about his obnoxious and arrogant friend, but refrained from making a bad situation worse.

Keeping a tighter rein on his emotions, he said, "His set up isn't exactly luxurious, but he appears to be holding his own. I don't think you need to worry about him."

"And 'e looked alright? In good enough spirits?"

Was Newkirk in good spirits? How could he tell? Was he bitter? Yes. Angry? Yes. Rude and disrespectful? A thousand times yes. But beyond that Hogan couldn't begin to guess. The man's insolence had overshadowed everything else and he had no idea how Newkirk was feeling in general.

Opting for a neutral answer, Hogan finally said, "He didn't really seem interested in exchanging pleasantries. I'm afraid there's nothing more to tell. Now again, excuse me."

Chapman moved aside this time, but when Hogan was halfway across the room, Chapman spoke again.

"Did you pass on my message? Did 'e send one back?"

As mad as he was at Newkirk, Hogan really did feel bad that he hadn't fulfilled his promise to Chapman, so when he turned around, his contrite expression was genuine.

Taking a deep breath, he said, "Corporal, I'm sorry. I really am. I talked to him for several minutes, but I forgot about your message until after we'd left. It wasn't intentional."

Chapman grimaced but then gave a small shake of his head. "It's alright, sir. I understand. These things 'appen. We're glad someone saw 'im, at least. Maybe if you see 'im again you can let 'im know what I said."

Hogan nodded, relieved. He'd expected Chapman to be angry. Then, grateful that the fallout from his visit to the cooler wasn't as bad as it could have been, Hogan escaped into his room and closed the door.

It wasn't until a few hours later when he came out for noon roll call that Hogan realized he'd celebrated just a bit too early, for things had taken a decided turn for the worse. The men, who had seemed to be thawing to him since he'd arranged to see Newkirk, sent him glares that were positively chilling and the muttered comments he wasn't meant to hear were hate-filled descriptions of what the men would like to do to all officers. Hogan could only conclude that someone must have told them what happened during his visit with Newkirk. He doubted it was Sergeant Zimmerman, so figured that for some unfathomable reason, Group Captain Hughes had said something. Hogan would have to have a word with him and tell him to keep his mouth shut in the future, but for now the damage was done and any tentative gains he'd made in connecting with the men were completely erased.

OoOoOoO

As a result, Hogan found himself more isolated than ever, and the next couple of weeks were a misery. While he fully accepted his own attitude hadn't been the best since becoming a prisoner, he was finally starting to come out of his funk and was dismayed that the men had chosen now to treat him as a leper. He hadn't expected to become friends with them—not only due to the rank difference, but he still thought of them as the worse group of soldiers he'd ever encountered and could never truly enjoy the company of such men—but it felt so wrong that in a camp of over 600 men, he'd never been so lonely.

He supposed it made sense for him to form a friendship with Hughes. The man, after all, was the same rank and they shared their quarters, but more and more Hogan was finding that he and the Englishman weren't meant to become lifelong pals. They simply saw things too differently. Not only was Hughes stiff and unfriendly, but his approach to the men was all about order, discipline, firm rules and everyone knowing and keeping their place. Moreover, he was just as likely to see the men as his enemy as the Germans. Hogan, on the other hand, used rules as guides, but applied common sense to their application; he judged men on their actions, not on their rank or family background; and he would never, ever confuse who was the real enemy here. No, Hogan and Hughes approached life too differently to form anything other than an uneasy partnership.

Thus, in the weeks following his cooler visit, Hogan found himself with a lot of time to think, allowing him to carefully review his situation and come up with a few new conclusions. For one, regardless of his desires to escape and the obvious feelings of animosity the men demonstrated towards him, as senior POW it was his duty to be their leader. Period. It wasn't a position he could abdicate to Hughes just because he didn't want it and the men didn't want him. Like it or not, it was his job and he was done pretending it was okay to leave it to Hughes.

Secondly, he'd accepted that he needed to do something about Newkirk. Apparently a lot of the men liked the mouthy Englishman, or at least hated the officers enough that they liked someone who gave them a hard time. He couldn't tell, but that wasn't the point. The point was that for better or worse, the men saw Newkirk's plight as a cause they would rally behind and if Hogan wanted to win them over, he'd have to do something about the Englishman's situation.

Finally, more than he'd like to admit, Hogan's conscience wouldn't let him forget Newkirk himself. His initial response to their meeting had been one of righteous anger. Yes, a good leader earned the respect of his men, but it went both ways. A good soldier offered respect to his leaders until shown they didn't deserve it, and even then, a _good_ soldier was careful how he expressed his disapproval. Newkirk's behavior wasn't anywhere close and his contempt and disrespect had left Hogan furious. But when his anger cooled, Hogan was able to see the encounter in a different light. He'd left, livid about Newkirk's appalling attitude, but was unable to put the man out of his mind. Try as he might, he couldn't help but remember those troubled eyes measuring him…and the feeling of coming up short. And now that he could look back on it all more objectively, he also remembered details he'd subconsciously noted at the time, but had ignored in the moment.

When he'd approached the bars and stood only a foot away from Newkirk, he'd seen the ravages wrought by the man's incarceration. The dark circles under his eyes and bloodless skin tone told the story of ill health and troubled sleep; the chapped skin and lips and a constant trembling the man couldn't hide spoke of the misery of constant exposure to the cold; and the way Newkirk had dropped heavily onto his bunk, as if the effort of standing had suddenly become too much, indicated to Hogan that months of being locked up in a cell under horrific conditions had utterly sapped the man's strength. Newkirk had been far from well.

But it was more than feeling guilty over leaving a man in those conditions without trying to help that kept Hogan reflecting on the corporal's situation. It was a grudging approval of the man himself. Despite the hellhole Newkirk was trapped in and clear ill health, he still had a fire burning that nothing had been able to snuff out. He had been rude and contemptuous, but he had been _alive_ and Hogan wanted to see more of that amongst the wretched prisoners of Stalag 13. Not the way Newkirk had shown it, naturally, but the spirit and strength to fight in spite of the odds was something they could all use.

The bottom line was that by the week before Christmas, Hogan had come around to a new way of thinking. In the cold light of day, he realized that he'd let an unprecedented melancholy get to him and make him act in ways that were foreign to his nature. He'd never thought it could happen to him and was ashamed of succumbing to it, but in fairness to himself he allowed that he was only human and the best way to make up for it was to start acting like the leader these men deserved.

His first attempt to fix things was to talk with Hughes. He might not like the man very much, but Hughes had been there a lot longer and might have some good insights.

"John," he said one evening. "I've been thinking about the men. Their morale is nonexistent and I'd like to work on some ways to pick up their spirits before Christmas."

Hughes looked up from the book he was reading and said dismissively, "Not much you can do here, you know. This is a prison camp after all. You can't expect the men to start dancing about, full of holiday cheer."

Hogan nodded. "Agreed. But there are things we could arrange. Maybe convince Klink to add something extra to the Christmas meal, set up caroling, put on some kind of Christmas show, things like that. What did you do last year?"

"I arrived in mid-January, so I really don't know if they did anything special for the holidays. As for this year, I don't believe we have enough talent for a show, but I do think caroling would be acceptable. Perhaps before lights out on Christmas day. I understand Sergeant Newton has agreed to act as chaplain and deliver a sermon after supper. Following that we could get a group of our better singers to go from barracks to barracks, provided the kommandant allows it."

"I'll work on Klink—see what he'll agree to," Hogan responded, hesitating just a fraction before adding, "And while I'm at it, I've been thinking of talking to him about letting Newkirk out. He's served his sentence and I believe it'd cheer everyone up to know one of their comrades wasn't stuck in isolation."

Hughes' scowl in response to Hogan's suggestion was no surprise.

"Really Hogan, you can't be serious. Trust me, that's the worst thing you could do. Have you already forgotten our trip to the cooler? The man is poison. A first-class troublemaker who would be sure to ruin what little cheer there is. I can't believe you're really considering it. I thought you agreed the best thing was to keep him there as long as possible?"

"Look, I know I said that and there's no question he was offensive. And yes, I can imagine him stirring up all kinds of trouble if he got out, but locking him up forever based on something he _might_ do doesn't set right with me."

Hughes shook his head, a glint of real anger in his eyes as he said, "If you're determined to experience his particular form of mayhem, I don't suppose I can stop you. But do yourself a favor and wait until after the holidays. That way, at least we have a chance for a peaceful day."

Hogan thought about it for a minute and then, still not completely trusting his own instincts, he sighed and nodded his agreement. After all, Hughes had been right about Newkirk's appalling attitude. He was most likely also right that releasing the corporal could ruin Christmas for everyone. Inexplicably disappointed with himself for caving into Hughes' way of thinking, after awhile Hogan left to seek out Klink in hopes of arranging the other Christmas treats.

Happily, the kommandant was either in a good mood or Hogan was better at wheedling that he'd thought, for Klink didn't need too much convincing and readily agreed to Hogan's requests for extra rations and permission for caroling.

The men weren't nearly as receptive when Hogan was looking for volunteers for caroling, though, responding to his request with a lack of enthusiasm that bordered on rudeness. It was that same spiritless attitude that Hogan had noted before and, added to their recent antipathy towards him, it only helped renew his desire to escape and find real men to lead.

On that front, Hogan had made some exciting progress. The previous week, Schnitzer the dog handler had beckoned to him surreptitiously when bringing the latest rotation of guard animals, and Hogan had casually made his way over. Schnitzer had quietly told him that he was a member of the Underground and London had sent word to him to get in contact with Hogan. He was to see if he could help Hogan in any way, either to escape or to set up operations. It was the one bright spot in Hogan's otherwise dreary existence and the hope that filled him with that message allowed him to cast aside any remaining depression. He _was_ going to escape. It was only a matter of time, but now he had help and he'd find a way to make it happen. He hadn't come up with a good plan yet, but arranged to talk to Schnitzer the next time he was scheduled to come by, in three weeks. His countdown for getting out of here was finally started.

The following week flew by, with Hogan making and discarding plan after plan, ignoring the unhappy men and Hughes, who he was finding more irritating every day. He no longer cared. Soon enough, they'd be a distant memory. He couldn't wait.

oOoOoOoOoOo

So it was that Hogan found himself on Christmas Eve, alone in a sea of people, but strangely content to observe. Sitting in a corner of the main barracks room, he saw that a good many of the men had received packages from home with treats they'd been saving for Christmas and several tins of cookies and cakes had been opened to be shared amongst friends. While he wouldn't say the men were exactly cheerful, for once they were ignoring his presence and they did seem to find a measure of happiness in sharing their small gifts and wishing each other the peace of the season. Hogan was glad. He felt no connection to these men, but never wished them ill.

After awhile, he became curious about what several of them were doing. They were gathered around the table, working together intently on something. When one of the men moved, he could see that they were jointly wrapping a small package, and, lacking tape, they had to be creative about folding it so it wouldn't come open. It became quite a production while they tried first one thing and then another, snickering good-naturedly at each other's attempts that failed. It was a process that took well over an hour, but they finally finished and Hogan watched as one of them carried it over and placed it on an empty bunk—the bunk which Hogan knew belonged to Newkirk. It joined another package that had been sitting there ever since he'd arrived, prompting Hogan to once again think about the man in the cooler.

Despite himself, he imagined what Newkirk was doing right now. Probably just huddling on his cot in his filthy cell, trying to stay warm in that frigid basement. Was he even aware tomorrow was Christmas? Did a man like that even care about Christmas? Anyone who would steal from his fellow prisoners and then laugh about it couldn't be terribly concerned about celebrating the birth of Jesus, could he?

The more Hogan thought about it, the more he realized that it didn't matter. It wasn't about what Newkirk deserved or even if the thieving corporal cared about Christmas itself, but it was about doing what was right and, moreover, giving the other men a chance to see their friend. It was time he tried to get Newkirk out.

Grabbing his coat before he could change his mind, Hogan left the barracks and marched over to Klink's office, knocking but not waiting for an answer before opening the door. Frauline Helga, the kommandant's secretary, was off for the holiday, so there was no one to stop him from barging right in.`

"Kommandant, can I have a word with you?"

"Colonel Hogan." Klink blinked in surprise. This was only the second time Hogan had come to see him without being sent for. "What do you want? I already agreed to the extra rations tomorrow. And the caroling. Don't tell me you want something else?"

"Well, Kommandant, turns out there is one more thing I was hoping for. Not for myself, but for the men. I can already tell that they look up to you as a father figure. Someone who punishes them for their own good, but knows when they've learned their lesson—someone who is strict but just. So I was thinking that it would be a good idea to let Corporal Newkirk out for Christmas. It would really show the men that they can count on you to treat them fairly."

"A father figure? Really?" Klink preened. "Well, I can understand how they might feel that way. I do look after their well-being, and I am known for being hard, but fair." Then he frowned, "But Hogan, letting that man out isn't in anyone's best interest. You've only seen him locked up, unable to cause trouble, but I saw how upset the young private was by his actions. And the stories Group Captain Hughes has told me about him are shocking. He even started a riot once. If he's released, he'll start causing trouble all over again. No, I'm gratified the men are so fond of me, but for their sakes, it's best to leave the corporal where he is."

"But Kommandant, Newkirk is one of the men, too. And he's stuck in the cooler all alone for Christmas. Come on, have a heart. I'll even promise to watch him myself and make sure he doesn't do anything to spoil the day."

Klink shook his head. "Hogan, I can appreciate that you want to get your man out of the cooler, but agreeing to watch him isn't enough. The minute you take your eyes off of him, he'll be right at it again. No. He stays there until I am convinced he's learned to behave and that's my final word."

"But kommandant…"

"I said, that's my final word. Now leave me alone so I can finish my work."

"But if I…"

"Disss…missed!"

Hogan scowled, but then abruptly saluted and left. After all, he couldn't blame Klink for saying the same thing he been thinking. No. He'd lost this round and it looked like Newkirk would spend Christmas alone.

He walked back slowly, feeling the bitter cold of the day and once again the image of Newkirk's cell popped in his mind. The sky looked like snow and he didn't want to think about how cold it would be in the cooler. He supposed they wouldn't let it actually get below freezing in there, but it didn't have to be freezing to be miserable.

He returned to the barracks and sighed as he noticed the men tense up when he entered. Instead of staying with them again, he joined Hughes in their room and closed the door, unwilling to dampen the men's meager attempts at holiday cheer.

And truthfully, Hogan wasn't feeling too cheery himself. Once he'd committed to getting Newkirk out, he'd been thinking more and more of the conditions in the cooler and couldn't imagine anyone, no matter what they did, deserving to spend Christmas in a place like that. He felt badly that he'd failed in getting him out and was sure if he'd started trying earlier, he would have been able to wear Klink down. It was his fault he'd waited too long, and now someone that he should have been looking out for would pay the price.

By the time he went to bed that night, Hogan was feeling a low as he had several weeks ago. The rest of the evening he had kept himself away from the others, feeling the isolation more than usual as he pretended not to hear them in the outer room, talking happily amongst themselves for once. Desperate to distract himself, he'd even attempted to get Hughes engaged in conversation, but the Englishman had been reading a book his wife had sent him for Christmas and made it obvious he didn't want to be bothered. Eventually Hogan climbed onto his bunk, glad the day was over.

As Hogan lay in bed, trying to get to sleep, memories of previous Christmas Eves crowded his thoughts—ones spent with family, friends, crew—and he felt that earlier melancholy start to seep into him again. He'd never felt as lonely as he did right then, thinking of good times and comparing them to now. After several hours, he finally fell asleep, praying that his life would soon make sense again.

OoOoOoOoOoO

A good night's sleep helped immeasurably, for when Hogan awoke on Christmas morning the despondency from the night before had lifted. Helping his outlook was the fresh coat of snow that had come down overnight and was glistening in the sunlight, making everything look clean and new. The men were likewise cheered by the snow and Hogan even saw a few of them smiling as they tossed snowballs at each other while lining up for roll call.

Hughes, of course, tutted about a lack of discipline but Hogan simply jabbed him in the side with his elbow to shut him up before he could ruin the mood.

After breakfast the morning passed pleasantly for the occupants of Barracks 2, with the men playing cards and talking together quietly. The scent of coffee warming on the woodstove also kept the barracks smelling cozy and comforting and, all in all, Christmas morning turned out to be rather satisfying.

The lunchtime treats promised by Kommandant Klink included a ration of white bread along with butter, also adding to the men's holiday cheer. They were in such a good mood after lunch that Hogan decided spend the afternoon with Hughes in their room rather than chance his presence dampening the men's spirits.

Not only ten minutes after he closed the door, however, he heard a commotion from the outer room. Hogan and Hughes shared a puzzled look, then both men went to see what was happening.

The first thing Hogan noted was the grins on the men's faces. It was the only time he'd really seen them genuinely happy and his first thought was that someone must have had another Christmas package that they were all looking forward to sharing. But then he saw Sergeant Zimmerman standing just inside the doorway, speaking to the men. As he was speaking in German, Hogan turned to Hughes for translation.

"He's saying Newkirk's being released and will be here any minute," said Hughes, tight jawed. "Apparently Kommandant Klink felt like being 'generous' for Christmas. Then again, perhaps it's his little joke on us. He knows that good-for-nothing wretch will bring nothing but trouble."

Many of the men's eager, happy faces darkened when they noted the arrival of the officers and heard Hughes' comments disparaging their friend. Hogan internally sighed and decided he once again needed to have a talk with Hughes. Why couldn't he even _try_ to not rile the men?

"Hush," he warned Hughes softly. It didn't matter if what Hughes said was true. He had liked seeing the happy faces on the men for once.

Hughes acknowledged him with a grimace, but said nothing before whirling around and grabbing his coat from their room and then brushing past Hogan, shouting over his shoulder, "Wells, Mitchell, you're with me."

"Hold on a minute," Hogan shouted before they could leave. "What are you doing?"

"Sergeant Zimmerman said Newkirk would be here in just a moment. You really want that man here in the state he's in? Do you remember the filth? The smell? He's not fit to join us. The three of us will intercept him and make sure he's scrubbed clean and deloused before he can contaminate the barracks. Don't worry Hogan old man. We'll take care of things. We've done it before."

Before he could respond, the two sergeants Hughes had called for followed Hughes out into the snow, leaving behind a dead silence.

When Hogan turned around, he was shocked by the blatant anger displayed by the majority of the men in the room. He wasn't quite certain of its cause this time and frankly was tired of trying to figure it out.

Irritated by the men's renewed hostility when the day had been going so well, Hogan decided not to go back into his room and instead took a seat at the table. He was fed up with being regarded as the enemy, so he sat there with the others, not allowing them to think they forced him to hide in his room.

After about an hour, Hughes came back with his two sergeants, who were practically dragging between them a man Hogan didn't recognize at all. He had been prepared for physical changes, and indeed if this was Newkirk, they were quite dramatic—instead of the repulsive filth that had covered Newkirk, the grime had been scrubbed off him, he was clean shaven, the soiled uniform was replaced with rough but clean civilian clothes, and his hair was short enough to resemble a boot camp buzz cut. But the biggest change between this man and the one from the cooler was his demeanor. In this man Hogan couldn't see any of the spit and fire he'd both loathed and admired in Newkirk. Instead, the man was a pitiful creature, shivering and hunched over between the sergeants.

Hogan had just about convinced himself that Hughes had unexpectedly run across a new prisoner when the men erupted into loud greetings, calling Newkirk by name. Okay…so maybe it was Newkirk.

Responding to the men, Newkirk raised his head, but even then Hogan couldn't see anything familiar in him. Maybe the eye color was the same, but that was it. It was like the soul inside was different. Instead of displaying the dark humor and contempt from before, this Newkirk seemed distressed, confused.

As Hogan studied this new version of the troublesome corporal, he seriously revised his original estimate of Newkirk's age. Earlier, he had thought the man was probably in his mid to late thirties. Now he had to say the Englishman looked at least a decade younger if not more and ... lost.

Hogan frowned. At closer look, the man looked more than lost. He looked…well, blue…half frozen.

"Close the door and bring him near the fire," he ordered, his commanding voice breaking through the chatter. "He looks like he's freezing."

Hughes sidled over to Hogan and said under his breath, "Really Hogan, we don't want to be coddling these men. Especially this one. Strong discipline is the only thing keeping order in this camp. I thought you understood that. Besides, it's only a matter of time before he goes back. Trust me. As soon as he's regained his strength, he'll be right back to his old tricks. Why even bother with him?"

Fed up with Hughes' unending hatred for Newkirk, Hogan scowled and said impatiently, "Back off Hughes, not now."

He didn't care if he was undermining Hughes in front of the men. No matter what Newkirk had done, it was clear that right now he needed help.

All of his own earlier irritation with Newkirk was brushed aside by concern when he walked up to him and saw Newkirk was barely even conscious of what was going on. It filled him with anger that the Germans would allow one of their prisoners to decline so markedly in just a few weeks. But it also filled him with a sense of purpose and, for the first time since he ended up in this godforsaken place, Hogan knew exactly what he was doing. All his earlier hesitation disappeared and he felt a renewed confidence fill him as he not too gently pushed Sergeants Wells and Mitchell aside and took Newkirk's arm. He was dismayed to feel how much Newkirk needed his aid to stand and, even worse, absolutely no warmth in the man's icy skin.

"Newkirk, can you hear me? Corporal?"

Violently shivering, Newkirk blinked and looked around, dazed.

"Wha's 'at?" he slurred.

"Newkirk…" said Hogan again, gently shaking the man's arm.

It was enough to catch Newkirk's eye, but when the corporal saw who held him, he pulled back in alarm. "No..."

In a gentle voice, Hogan soothed, "Hey, it's okay. No one's going to hurt you. It looks like you're a little cold, though. We need to get you warm, all right? Come on, let's get you near the stove."

Newkirk just blinked at him, his eyes unfocused.

Not letting go of Newkirk, he turned to men standing around them, ordering, "Someone help me...and put a chair by the fire."

Hogan wasn't surprised that it was Chapman who rushed forward to grab Newkirk's other arm and the two of them slowly worked their way to the stove, keeping Newkirk steady as he stumbled his way over, finally lowering him into the chair.

Once there, Newkirk didn't acknowledge anyone. He sat hunched, dazed, and confused, only vaguely aware of what was going on around him. He didn't respond to a couple of blankets being thrown over his shoulders, or to the words of welcome and encouragement of his barracks mates. When someone tried to hand him a cup of coffee, he did reach for it, but hands that Hogan could now see were cracked and bleeding from exposure to the cold couldn't hold on to it and some spilled on his legs before the cup was pulled away. Newkirk jerked from the heat, but only apathetically swiped at the spill before tucking his hands under his arms.

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity as a group of men crowded around their friend, talking to him and rubbing his arms, but instead of improving, Newkirk's condition was deteriorating before their eyes. He was shivering too hard to say anything, his breath shallow and erratic and before long he became completely unresponsive.

Hogan was in the middle of the group, kneeling on the floor next to the shivering man trying to keep his attention by talking to him, hoping he would perk up.

But then Sergeant Jones, a middle-aged Irishman that Hogan had noted as one of the less apathetic NCOs in the group, spoke above the hubbub, "This isn't working, lads. I saw this many years ago. Me uncle fell in the river one winter and though he was pulled out and we got him right back to the house, he died a few hours later. The doctor said it was hypothermia…body was too cold and shut down. Young Peter here is acting the same way me uncle was that day. If we don't want him to suffer the same fate, we need to get him warm right away."

Chapman pushed through the others and leaned down, enveloping Newkirk in a great hug as if to force his own warmth into his cold friend.

"What can we do?" he asked worriedly.

"You have the right idea," answered Hogan. "Body heat. That's the best way to warm him up."

"Right, we need to sandwich him," said RAF Sergeant Turner, another of the more senior NCOs who had acted especially unfriendly with Hogan since his cooler visit. "You know, like we did with Hill last winter. Come on lads."

Hogan hadn't heard it called that before but knew the men had the right idea when Chapman stood up and stripped off his jacket, pullover, and pants, leaving him only in his longjohns, and then crawled onto the nearest bunk and laid on his side. Then Jones and Turner crouched on either side of Newkirk and quickly unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and tossed them aside, then carefully lowered him to the floor where other willing hands helped quickly strip his shoes and pants off, also leaving the now unconscious man only in his long underwear.

They then picked him up off the floor and carried him over to the bunk where they lowered him down and gently pushed the unresisting man into Chapman's arms. To Hogan's everlasting surprise, it wasn't another RAF man who had tugged off his shirt and pants and was waiting to finish the 'sandwich,' but an American GI, Sergeant James Kinchloe. Kinchloe was a tall, solemn black man whom Hogan had noted hovering in the background, almost always keeping to himself. Of all the men in the barracks, Hogan wouldn't have picked the serious GI to jump onto the bunk and wrap his arms around the freezing Englishman, but he did so without hesitation. While Hogan was wondering what on earth Newkirk could have done to earn this quiet man's friendship, the other men in the barracks started yanking blankets off their beds, bringing them over and spreading them over the three men.

Within minutes of Turner's suggestion, the men had Newkirk snugly cocooned and stood back to survey their handiwork. It was the first genuine sign of spontaneous teamwork Hogan had seen from these men and while he was delighted to see it, he was surprised it was for the camp troublemaker. Why would they suddenly wake up and act like the men they ought to be for someone who supposedly was more trouble than he was worth? Not for the first time, Hogan got the clear impression that there was more going on in this camp than he understood.

While the next couple of hours passed quietly for the men of Barracks 2, the strained atmosphere from earlier was gone. There were occasional worried looks thrown over to where the two men were still warming Newkirk, but the men seemed both content and happy. Hughes had disappeared into the officers' room, but Hogan chose to stay with the men. For the moment they seemed to be tolerating his company, and he decided he'd rather be out there than with the dour Hughes.

Hogan had been reading a book at the table when he finally heard some low voices over by the bunk. It seemed Newkirk was coming around.

Kinch was the first to move, rolling out of the bunk and then turning to help pull Newkirk over to the edge and sit him up. Many gentle hands helped the fragile Englishman into his clothes and then escorted him next to the woodstove where someone draped a blanket over his shoulders.

"Thanks, mates," said Newkirk softly, a weary smile lighting his features. "This is grand."

Hogan stayed in the background, letting the men take care of their friend while he watched the proceedings with interest. Once again, he could barely believe this was the same man from the cooler. He was getting used to the physical changes, but the smile and friendly voice made him seem like a different person.

For the next several minutes the men fussed over Newkirk, making sure he was warm enough first and then bringing him a cup of tea they'd made just for him, helping him to drink when his still lightly-trembling hands threatened to spill it. The entire time the men surrounding him were grinning, clearly delighted to have their friend amongst them again. It warmed Hogan's heart to see them all so happy and he knew whatever trouble Newkirk might bring later, it was worth it to ask Klink for his release.

"You feelin' up to a bit of extra cheer, mate?" Chapman asked Newkirk, once he was done with the tea.

"I'm about as cheerful as I've been in a long time, me old china," replied Newkirk with a soft smile. "Can't tell you 'ow nice it is to be back with you lot."

"Well then, since you're up to it, you have a couple of packages waitin' for you. It's only fittin' you open them now, it being Christmas and all."

"Christmas?" Newkirk shivered, suddenly looking worried. "Today's Christmas? It can't be. It's been…wasn't it..."

When he trailed off, Chapman prompted curiously, "Wasn't what?"

"I...I thought...well..." he mumbled something else as he shivered again and ducked his head down.

"Thought what, lad?" asked Jones. "What is it?"

Newkirk didn't answer for a moment, but then whispered, "I didn't know. I thought it'd been a lot longer."

There was a long silence as the reality of what their friend had been through came crashing down on the men and Newkirk's words reminded them of all he _wasn't_ saying.

Then Kinchloe stepped forward and put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder, saying quietly, "It's all right, Peter. It's felt like a lot longer for us, too."

Newkirk looked up in gratitude, but immediately it was replaced by a flash of fear.

"Is that why they let me out? For Christmas? Are they puttin' me back afterwards?"

Kneeling down so he was at eye level, Kinchloe answered firmly, "Of course not. Guess even old Klink feels the holiday spirit and decided to let you out. Now why would he want to send you back?"

Newkirk's face was troubled, Kinchloe's words not able to completely reassure him. "It was..." He swallowed and his eyes became suspiciously shiny. "I just don't fancy going back right away, is all." Blinking rapidly, embarrassed, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and said, "Blimey, sure is smoky in 'ere."

"Well, seeing 'ow it _is_ Christmas, you do need to open those packages," said Chapman cheerfully, deliberately redirecting the conversation.

The man closest to Newkirk's bunk, American Technical Sergeant Andrew Carter, who hadn't met the Englishman before today, reached up and grabbed the two boxes and brought them over.

"Yeah, you gotta open your presents. Here you go," said Carter, equally cheerful, placing the larger of the two boxes in Newkirk's lap.

Newkirk tried to open his package, but his shaking hands were unable to even rip the paper.

Setting aside the smaller package, Carter said, "Hey, let me help you," and started ripping the packaging for Newkirk.

He pulled out the contents and held it up in astonishment.

"Gosh. Someone must have sent this as a joke," Carter said in wonderment, as he beheld a long gown of soft cotton fabric.

Newkirk, who had been reaching out to lightly touch it, pulled back and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well, why would anyone send you a dress?"

Chapman slapped Carter's hands aside and grabbed the gift.

"You silly git!," he snarked. "It's a nightshirt. You know. For men to wear to bed."

Carter blushed bright red. "Really?" he squeaked. "But it's…I mean…well, gosh, I've never seen one of them before." Turning back to Newkirk, he added, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything. It's just, well, we don't use them where I come from."

Several of the men were rolling their eyes and frowning at the hapless man, but then help came from an unexpected quarter.

"Leave off, Chappy," said Newkirk, rolling his eyes at his fellow Cockney. "No 'arm done." Winking up at Carter, he added in amusement, "Wasn't 'is fault 'e was born a Yank and didn't learn to appreciate the finer things in life."

Snorting, Chapman asked, "Finer things bein' a nightshirt?"

"Just so," answered Newkirk with a smirk.

Happy to be forgiven, Carter babbled, "Well, that's great. I mean, I bet it's comfortable. Not scratchy like wool. And sometimes longjohns can get kinda binding. You know, in the wrong places. So it would be nice to sleep in something loose like that. Although I think it might get drafty in the winter and I'm not sure I'd want cold air creeping up my legs. So maybe I'd only wear one in the summer. Course the fellas back home might think it's a dress, so I guess I couldn't wear one there. But if I…"

With the corner of his mouth quirking up, Newkirk asked of the room at large, "Does 'e ever stop? 'o is this chap anyways?"

Blushing again, Carter said, "Oh, uhm, sorry. Andrew Carter. I'm new here. Well, not new new. But I came just after they sent you to the cooler. So that's why we haven't met before. Of course, you probably figured that out. But what I mean is that…uh…well anyway, the fellas talked a lot about you and it's good to finally meet you."

Grinning openly despite his weariness, Newkirk said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Andrew," and put his hand out.

Keeping in mind the tender, cracked skin, Carter shook it carefully and said, "Well, I'm sure the nightshirt will be great. Was it from your wife?"

"Nah, not married. Like any bird would 'ave me! It's from me little sister, Mavis. I'd written 'er a letter awhile back and said we only 'ad our uniforms to sleep in and 'ow much I missed 'avin' a nightshirt. When all you've got is one uniform…" he stopped abruptly, his face falling. When he resumed, his voice was tight, "Well, at least, I 'ad one before. Now..." he clenched his fists.

It was painful to watch the stricken man's volatile rollercoaster of raw emotions—he had gone from content to miserable in a flash and it was obvious that he was worn down to nothing.

"Where is it, Peter? We'll fetch it," one of the men said quietly, followed by murmured agreements from others.

When Newkirk shrugged one shoulder and shook his head, Sergeant Wells, who'd been lounging by the door sneering as the men fussed over the camp troublemaker, walked over and said, "It wasn't salvageable so we tossed it in the rubbish bin and the Jerries gave us what he has on. He'll have to make do with these clothes for the rest of the war." He added, tugging a handful of Newkirk's shirt dismissively.

Jerking away, Newkirk seemed to shrink further into himself.

Someone, Hogan couldn't see who, grabbed Wells and shoved him away.

"It's all right, Peter. We'll find you another one somewhere."

"Sure, someone'll have spares, mate."

"I think Browning has two shirts, and I know Walker has an extra cap."

Several of the men offered up additional suggestions, but the realization that his own uniform was lost was a hard blow and Newkirk didn't respond.

"Well open up the other one," someone finally said, gently poking Newkirk on the shoulder.

"What?" Newkirk said, tired and confused. "Other what?"

"The other package, you 'alfwit," Chapman said fondly. "Come on. I'll 'elp you."

It was the small package Hogan had seen the men working on last night and, kneeling in front of Newkirk, Chapman quickly had it unwrapped.

"There you go," he said. "A new deck of cards just for you."

Chapman clearly knew his friend, for it was a good distraction and as soon as he saw it, Newkirk's expression lightened.

"A new deck? With all the cards? That's a bit of all right."

"We've been savin' them just for you," chimed in O'Brien, another RAF corporal. "You remember you promised to show me how to do that card trick."

Newkirk glanced at him. "You're going to 'ave to wait until I get my 'ands in shape again," he said a bit sadly as he looked at his hands, then added with a touch of a smirk that Hogan felt was probably a typical expression for the brash Englishman, "but then you'd better watch out, because I 'ave a lot of catchin' up to do."

"We'll put them on your shelf, Newkirk. Let you be the first to shuffle them," another man said.

"That's something to look forward to. Ta mates," Newkirk said, finally gifting them all with a smile.

Hogan had watched the entire interaction with interest and pleasure. It was refreshing to see the friendly banter, and he wondered if the men had been like this all along and been hiding it from him or if he'd been blinded by his own despondency. Whatever the case, it was a nice change.

Then the men crowded around Newkirk began telling him stories of what had gone on while he was locked up, prompting Hogan to scoot a little closer. It was enlightening to hear about recent events from their perspective. After only about 15 minutes, though, he could tell that the Englishman's energy was flagging. The others didn't seem to notice, however, caught up in sharing their stories with their friend.

"Fellas, I don't want to break up the party, but Newkirk looks like he needs to rest up before roll call. How about you get him settled?" Hogan said quietly, breaking into the conversation.

Newkirk looked at him gratefully, but when he recognized who had just spoken, he turned away, a confused frown on his face. Yeah, Hogan figured they'd have to have a good talk before the air was cleared between the two of them, but now wasn't the time and he stepped back while Newkirk's friends once more helped him up and over to the bunk beneath his own.

Within seconds, Newkirk was sound asleep and the rest of the afternoon past by quietly with the men keeping their voices to almost a whisper out of concern for the sleeping man.

It was so quiet that when Zimmerman opened the door, shouting at the men for roll call, most of the men in the barracks jumped.

Newkirk didn't budge.

"Come on, Newkirk, roll call," Mitchell, Hughes' other sergeant, called loudly. For that he received at least a dozen glares, but that didn't stop him from going over to the bunk and shaking the sleeping man roughly.

Newkirk made a sound between groan and whimper, but didn't awaken. Frowning, Hogan came over and pulled Mitchell aside.

"Let him go."

"But sir, he has to get up. It's time for roll call. Wouldn't want him to get sent back to the cooler for missing it," Mitchell said, gloating. It was obvious this man was _not_ one of Newkirk's friends.

Hogan was so very tired of unpleasant people and said with an angry sigh, "Mitchell, get lost."

Then he turned to Newkirk and gently shook his shoulder.

When that produced no response, he shook him harder and called, "Newkirk?"

When again the man didn't respond, Hogan stood up and surprised everyone by saying, "Let him stay. I'll square it with the guards."

But Hughes, who had been on his way outside for roll call, marched back and snapped at Hogan, "I told you coddling this man won't do any good. Trust me." Then he turned and said, "Mitchell, get him up."

The men from Barracks 2 were rooted in their spots, none leaving as they watched their two senior officers square off.

Blocking Mitchell, Hogan snarled, "I said let him stay."

There was something stirring in him. Something that was part of who he was, but hadn't realized he'd buried.

The look on his face must have told Hughes everything he needed to know, for without further word, he whirled around and was out the door, followed closely by Wells and Mitchell.

The other men followed, but not before sending Hogan a new look of respect. It amazed him just how good it felt.

Sure enough, at roll call Newkirk was missed, but Hogan called out to Klink that he wasn't well and Klink, eager to get back inside and enjoy his own Christmas dinner, said dismissively, "Very well. Sergeant, check to make sure he's in the barracks and that's sufficient. Disss...misssed."

Pleased with another unexpectedly easy victory, Hogan followed Zimmerman into the barracks and grinned when the German grunted at the sight of the sleeping prisoner and left without a word. It was great to feel useful again. He then joined the other men for dinner, leaving Newkirk sleeping.

When the men returned after their meal, they found their barracks mate still asleep, but after awhile they woke him briefly to give him a bit of food that they'd brought back. Then they tucked him in when it was clear he was drifting away again. He'd just dropped off when a knock on the door announced the carolers, about whom Hogan had frankly forgotten.

Hogan didn't know how they'd been drafted, but someone had obviously found four exceptional singers, for the harmony of their voices as they performed their first selection was simply stunning. The quartet then took requests for favorite carols, which included both festive and solemn songs, and by the time they left to go to the next barracks, their music had filled the building with a feeling of peace and contentment that even the grumpiest of prisoners couldn't fail to embrace.

Following their departure, the men spontaneously started shaking hands, hugging their friends, and wishing each other good tidings and Merry Christmas. And to Hogan's shocked delight, they didn't hesitate to include him. It was a completely and utterly surprised Hogan who smiled at the lot, realizing that for the first time since being shot down, he was actually happy.

He laughed out loud as the men continued milling about, some of them picking up friends with especially exuberant hugs. It was good to see his men so happy. The thought startled him. Yes, somehow, some way, something inexplicable had happened today and they had become _his_ men.

He fell into a chair, stunned with gratitude. Without knowing how it happened, his prayers from the night before had been answered and life made sense again. He'd had his Christmas miracle.

OoOoOoOoO

A/N: I'd meant to get this out before Christmas, but the chapter grew to about twice the size I'd originally planned and I just couldn't squeeze it in with all the other holiday preparations. I hope everyone had a wonderful and happy day!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Morning came a bit early to Barracks 2 the day after Newkirk's return. Usually the men would stay in their beds as long as possible, leaving the meager warmth only when prompted by a guard's abrupt banging and shouting. On this day, however, shortly before roll call Hogan crept quietly into the outer room, thinking to wake Newkirk early as he would need a little more time to get going. He wasn't the only one with that idea, apparently, for when he entered the room, he found several other men up as well.

"Still asleep?" he whispered to Sergeants Turner and Kinchloe, who were standing by Newkirk's bunk.

They nodded at Hogan, but made no move to disturb their sleeping comrade.

He understood their hesitation when he joined them and looked down at the Englishman—even in the pale grey light of early morning, he could tell that Newkirk was unwell. Asleep, none of Newkirk's personality could mask the result of months of misery. Thin and pale, he looked positively frail, curled on his side with his hands tucked up by his cheek.

In fact, he looked so weary that Hogan was tempted to let the man sleep and make excuses again for him again at roll call. They could bring him back something to eat as before. But no. One of Klink's immutable rules was for all prisoners to be at roll call and the Kommandant would hardly be moved by the Christmas spirit two days in a row. He might therefore take Newkirk's repeat absence as a sign that the 'English troublemaker' hadn't learned his lesson and dump him back in the cooler. Hogan didn't think Newkirk was up to another cooler stay at the moment, so he nodded to the others to go ahead and Sgt Turner reached down and gently shook Newkirk's shoulder.

"Hey, Newkirk, time to get up," he said softly.

Though he didn't waken, Newkirk frowned in his sleep and pulled away from the touch with a low moan.

"Guess Peter still wants more beauty sleep," said Kinchloe with a sympathetic smile.

Hogan shook his head and said quietly, trying not to wake up the rest of the barracks, "He can climb back in bed as soon as we're done, but he needs to stand for roll call. Whoever's next to him can help him."

Hogan didn't understand the look the two sergeants exchanged, but was diverted when Turner shook Newkirk harder and was successful this time.

"Cor," said Newkirk in a sleep roughened voice as he blinked slowly and looked at the hovering men, "this isn't a dream, is it? I really am back with me mates?"

"You sure are buddy," said Kinchloe, patting his friend's shoulder. "And it's time to get up. Roll call in about ten minutes."

"Roll call? Now there's somethin' I didn't miss," he said with a sigh. "All right then. Give us a 'and up, will you?"

Both sergeants took a hand and gently pulled him up, not letting go until Newkirk stopped swaying.

Closing his eyes and leaning forward, Newkirk rested his head in a hand and said, "Blimey."

"Maybe we should see if you can stay in bed again," said Kinchloe with a worried frown. "You look beat."

Newkirk pushed aside the hands that were once more steadying him and forced himself to straighten. Scowling slightly, he said, "Leave off, Kinch. Just sat up too fast. Nothing wrong what a bit of breakfast can't fix."

Grabbing the frame of the top bunk to pull himself up, Newkirk's actions belied his words, for it was clearly a monumental effort to slowly and stiffly make his way to the table.

Hogan watched all the proceedings silently. It was interesting that none of the men offered to help although they clearly wanted to. He understood why when Newkirk gently lowered himself to the bench and Chapman, who'd been watching from the table, grabbed his elbow to help him.

Jerking away in annoyance, Newkirk hissed, "I said leave off! I can do it meself."

Clearly _someone_ was inclined to get testy over hovering.

Chapman backed off, his hands raised in surrender. "All right. I know, I know. Little Petey can take care of 'imself. But I'll warn you, if little Petey's stubborn arse falls on the floor, don't go lookin' for me to kiss what 'urts."

Newkirk tried to glare at his friend, but humor beat out indignation and a twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. "That's charmin', mate. Real charmin'," he said with a snort.

Their conversation, although quiet, woke the remaining men and within a few minutes, most had rolled out of their bunks and joined the others around the table, taking the opportunity to chat with their returned barracks-mate before roll call.

It was only a few minutes later that Sergeant Zimmerman flung open the door and started shouting, not caring it was unnecessary as the men were already up. They tumbled out the door and into formation, Newkirk a little slower than the rest but getting there on his own steam.

When Newkirk fell in beside Hughes, Hogan glanced over and quirked an eyebrow. He would have thought the corporal would have chosen a less obvious position in the back of the formation.

Hughes explained, however, with a quiet, "The worst troublemakers get a front row view…and this one knows he's earned himself a permanent spot, right next to me."

Based on the evil look directed at Hughes, Newkirk heard the murmured remarks, but said nothing. Clearly there was no love lost between these two.

Roll call was mercifully short, with the Kommandant once again refraining from any of his long-winded speeches thanks to the bitter cold. Thus, within minutes the men were dismissed.

Hogan looked over to Newkirk's spot, about to suggest the corporal go back indoors and let someone bring him breakfast, but Newkirk was already heading off with the others. With a shrug, Hogan followed.

The morning's meal was the usual unappetizing oatmeal, barely warm, but none of the men complained as the bowls were ladled out. When there was never quite enough to satisfy, you weren't picky about what you got.

Hogan kept an eye on all the men as he sat down at Barracks 2's table. Since that unexpected epiphany yesterday that the prisoners of Stalag 13 truly were _his_ men and _his_ responsibility, he'd been seeing them in a different light. No, he still wouldn't be putting any of them in the same category as his former crew or squadron mates, but fresh eyes allowed him to reassess them. Maybe they had issues with morale and military courtesies, but he'd been too quick to write them off and was now determined to get to know them better. Furthermore, he wanted to see what he could do to turn things around before he escaped.

As he watched, he was amused by the men's careful treatment of Newkirk. Although he was still unsteady and gingerly lowered himself into his chair, they made a point not to fuss and deftly ignored his shaking hands as he brought his spoon up to his lips.

Despite the unappealing nature of the food, the meal was one of the best Hogan had had since arriving. With the men in uncharacteristically good spirits, they engaged in a round of storytelling as they regaled their returned friend with humorous anecdotes of the goings-on in the camp since he'd been locked up. It was only when the men were just about finished eating that Hogan noticed with concern that Newkirk was only picking at his food.

"Corporal, are you feeling all right? You've barely touched your food."

The shuttered look that Newkirk turned on Hogan took the colonel aback. Just seconds ago, Newkirk had been openly smiling at one of the stories being told. Unconsciously sharing in the pleasure of the men with the return of their friend, Hogan had somehow forgotten that he and said friend weren't on the best of terms.

"Not feelin' particularly 'ungry this mornin', but you're right, I shouldn't let it go to waste. Thank you for noticin', _sir_," he said coldly.

Hogan swore the temperature in the room dropped at least ten degrees for where there had been lighthearted banter, the conversation died and the men were all carefully looking at no one.

Then Sergeant Jones slapped the table and said, "Well, it's all good. If you don't want your porridge, I'm sure the fellas will help finish it for you."

Nodding tightly, Newkirk shoved his bowl to the center of the table and the nearby men quickly scooped out spoonfuls until it was gone. That done, without word the men pushed away from the table and took their bowls to the dishwashing window and walked out, leaving Hogan alone with Hughes. Bewildered, Hogan wondered what minefield he'd just stepped in.

He received a clue when Hughes said disdainfully, "Ungrateful sod, never appreciates what he has. Looks like he's forgotten once more that we don't waste food here. Guess I'll just have to reinforce that lesson again."

Not wanting to get into the history of that comment at the moment, Hogan objected, "I'm sure he's just not feeling well. Probably a lingering effect from yesterday. As thin as he is, I expect once he gets his appetite back he'll be ravenous."

"As you say." Shaking his head at the clueless American, Hughes excused himself and gathered his bowl, leaving Hogan abruptly alone where just minutes ago there had been a table full of laughing men.

"Huh," he said to himself, and then he, too, stood up and disposed of his dirty dishes.

On his way back to his barracks, Hogan caught up to the rest of the men. Normally they wouldn't linger in this weather, but they were all keeping pace with their slower companion, who was determinedly walking without aid.

Hogan grinned, his humor returning with the obvious evidence of the stubbornness of the man. Newkirk was being foolish not to let the others help him, but Hogan felt a sympathy for the man, understanding the need to stand on your own feet, especially in this kind of environment. He kept behind the lot all the way back to their barracks, enjoying watching the men trying to be solicitous without being overly obvious.

By mid-morning, though, they had an even harder time hiding their desire to help, for their friend's stubborn pride couldn't cover the fact that he was leaning heavily on the table, looking wretched and unable to sit up straight.

Hogan was wondering what the reaction would be if he intervened himself when the decision was taken out of his hands.

"Why don't you lie down for awhile, man. You look done in," said Private Harper, a young GI who had been watching with impatience the other men's reluctance to tell their barracks-mate he was being ridiculous.

"Well, 'o asked you?" snapped Newkirk, forcing himself up straight again.

"I'm just saying you should rest for awhile. My dad always said there's no shame in showing weakness when you're not feeling well. Sitting here while you're miserable isn't fooling anyone."

From the universal reaction of winces, rolled eyes, closed eyes, shakes of heads, and hands to foreheads, Hogan knew the young pup had said the wrong thing.

"I'll show you who's weak, mate," growled Newkirk, as anger-fueled strength allowed him to shove to his feet.

"Hey, take it easy," said Harper, backing up when Newkirk invaded his space.

Newkirk poked him in the chest and said, "Well maybe you need to take it easy and 'ave _yourself_ a wee nap. No one asked for your advice so do us all a favor and shut your mouth."

"Fellas," Hogan interrupted, not waiting for things to escalate. He was shocked, though, when he received a dark look not just from Newkirk, but from Harper as well.

"Sir?" asked Newkirk, his tone making the word anything but deferential.

"Is there a problem, sir?" added Harper coolly, although his tone was more respectful.

"Just making sure there isn't one, Harper."

"Oh, no sir. No problem," said Harper. "Is there, Newkirk?"

"No...no problem at all," answered Newkirk while he stared at Hogan, a hint of the same contempt he showed in the cooler coming through his tone.

"Good," said Hogan, his own sharp tone warning Newkirk to watch himself. He sat back down, forcing himself not to sigh. The men were closing ranks against the intruder. In a way he was angry at himself for hoping for more. He was well aware that Newkirk still saw him as the enemy and hadn't expected any better from him, but after yesterday he'd hoped he'd made some progress with the other men and was stung to realize that he was still firmly on the outside.

Harper and Newkirk sat down at the table together, Hogan catching Newkirk wordlessly apologizing to Harper for his temper with a contrite expression. A quick smile of understanding from Harper ended the issue.

Of course, that led Hogan back to his original concern, regardless of his opinion of Newkirk's behavior, the man was still unwell but unwilling to admit it. Standing on your own two feet was well and good, but there came a point when you needed to forget your pride and do what was necessary to get better. Once again, however, before Hogan could to do anything about Newkirk, someone else intervened. This time it was in the shape of a small Frenchman who'd burst into the room with abandon.

"Pierre! They said you were at breakfast, but I didn't believe them. Mon ami, I'm so glad to see you!"

A red blur few across the room and wrapped itself around the startled Englishman.

"LeBeau. Blimey!" said Newkirk, tentatively wrapping his own arms around his friend.

LeBeau pulled back, keeping his hands on Newkirk's shoulders as an ear-to-ear grin split his face.

"I can't believe you are finally out of that filthy hole. Let me look at you."

The grin faded somewhat as Lebeau took in Newkirk's appearance and the careful way he moved.

"Are you all right, mon ami? What did they do to you?" he ask, a hint of worry creeping into his voice.

"Don't fuss, Louis. You know 'ow it is with all this cold weather. Took a bit of a chill yesterday. Stiffened up the bones, is all."

Lebeau scoffed and rolled his eyes, unconvinced, but he apparently decided to let it go, for the happy grin came back and he said, "Well, I brought you something that should warm you right up. I've been saving some cans of vegetables from Schultz and I made some nice, hot soup. Here, try some."

He uncovered a small bowl he'd placed on the table before he'd thrown his arms around Newkirk, revealing a thick vegetable soup. Hogan's mouth watered when the smell wafted over to him and felt a twinge of jealousy as he thought about his own unappetizing breakfast.

Newkirk adjusted himself on the bench to face the table, but once again his movements were too slow and careful for LeBeau's watchful eyes.

He frowned and put his hands on his hips. "You're hurt, aren't you? What's wrong?"

"I told you. Just a bit stiff."

LeBeau rattled off several annoyed-sounding phrases in French that Hogan had no way of following, but the meaning was clear enough.

Scowling, Newkirk said testily, "I thought you wanted me to eat your ruddy soup. You going to stand there natterin' on or give me the spoon?"

"Newkirk…" LeBeau started out loudly, but stopped himself with a shake of his head. He continued on in a normal voice, "You're lucky I'm so happy to see you, mon pote, or I'd give the soup to someone else. Luckily, today you get a free pass." He handed over the spoon and added, "Go go ahead and try it."

With the first sip all tension drained from Newkirk. "Oh Louis, this is marvelous. I can't remember the last time I 'ad something this good."

Delighted, LeBeau said, "You like it? Of course it isn't your usual boring English food."

"Boring English food? I'll 'ave you know my 'boring English food' tastes better than 'alf that ruddy stuff you make what can't even be pronounced."

"Barbarian," LeBeau scoffed, but he ruined any chance of being taken seriously due to the great smile he couldn't keep off his face.

Hogan moved to the far end of the table with the book he'd been reading for the past few days. Even if they still didn't exactly welcome him, sitting amongst the men made him feel a little less isolated, and so he settled in for a quiet morning.

Quiet reading wasn't really in the cards, however, for in contrast to the usual dispirited, muted atmosphere Hogan had come to expect from the men, the banter between LeBeau and Newkirk got louder and louder and soon several others were good naturedly joining in. They were ganging up on LeBeau, who was forced to fight back on his own until Newkirk unexpectedly switched sides and teamed up with the Frenchman against the others. The quips and insults were hilarious and Hogan had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He didn't know how they'd react if they thought he was paying attention, but certainly didn't want to spoil their fun.

Newkirk was so relaxed by the good food and good company that after awhile, without any prompting, he conceded, "I think I might lie down awhile before next roll call. Not really tired, but wouldn't mind warming up a bit under a blanket before we have to go outside."

"You're still cold?"

"Newkirk!"

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Here, let me help you up."

A flurry of voices followed his statement.

"Easy now, I'm all right," broke in Newkirk with a grin. "You're not goin' to start fussin' again, are you?"

"Course not," said Chapman, putting a hand under Newkirk's elbow as he started to rise. "'o would want to fuss over an ornery bloke like you?"

"That's real touchin', mate," said Newkirk, distracted enough by the friendly insult that he forgot to object to Chapman helping him over to the bunk.

When he got there, he stopped and sighed, staring up at his bunk. It had been a long time since Newkirk had slept in his own bunk, but it appeared to be too much of a challenge to get up there.

"Oh, sorry. Don't mind me," said Carter, who jumped up from where he'd been sitting on the lower bunk. "I should'a told you. You can just use my bunk. I'm happy to switch until you're feeling better."

Newkirk looked longingly at his own, then reluctantly nodded.

"'preciate it, mate," he said with a sad smile for Carter, again not objecting when both Chapman and Carter helped ease him down.

He rolled over onto his side and pulled a blanket of him, closing his eyes the second his head hit the pillow, his energy deserting him now that he was finally down.

LeBeau had joined them as well and smirked, "Not really tired, huh?"

Popping open one eye, Newkirk snarked, "I told you….just gettin' warm."

Chapman hunched down, only inches from Newkirk's face. "The truth is that you can't keep your eyes open, mate. Now stop showin' your stupid side and go to sleep for awhile."

Newkirk opened his mouth to argue, but a giant yawn came out instead and his eyes slipped closed of their own volition. Huffing in annoyance at his own traitorous body, he muttered something uncomplimentary about so-called friends, but unable to help himself, gave in to his fatigue and was asleep in moments.

In the meantime Carter had been gathering up the blankets from several surrounding bunks and now spread them over the Englishman.

When the others looked at him, he said, "What? He said he was cold, you know. Just because he was actually tired doesn't mean he wasn't cold too. And he'll sleep better if he's warm."

"It was a good idea," said LeBeau. Then he stuck out his hand. "I'm LeBeau. Louis LeBeau. From over in Barracks 3. Merci for looking after mon ami."

"Hi. Andrew Carter. I'm from Bullfrog. That's in North Dakota. Well, or maybe I should say I'm from Barracks 2 now. Uh, but you guessed that, right? Anyway, it's good to meet you. You seem to know Newkirk well. I only met him yesterday, but all the other fellas have talked about him, so I kinda feel like I know him."

"He was assigned to my barracks when I got here. So I've known him…oh…almost a year and a half now."

"Wow. That's a long time. How come he's assigned to this barracks, then? I didn't think they moved guys around much."

"Only when they're troublemakers," said Chapman, breaking in. "Gents like me and Newkirk were given the special privilege of living with 'is 'ighness, Group Captain 'ughes. 'e 'ad all the troublemakers put in 'ere."

"Troublemakers? Gosh. I didn't know that and I've been assigned here the whole time. Does that mean I'm one too?" asked Carter, wide eyed.

Chapman smirked. "Did you do anythin' durin' intake? Upset anyone?"

Carter shook his head vigorously. "No. Honest. Well…" he paused, thinking carefully, "no…nothing."

"Then you're probably just fillin' an empty bunk. Don't worry…if you 'ang around long enough with the lot of us, you'll find some trouble, I'd wager."

Hogan kept looking at his book, not watching but listening to everything. The barracks for troublemakers, huh? That was interesting. It might explain why this particular group of men didn't fit the mold of other soldiers he'd known. Now he was curious about the rest of the camp's inmates. If his barracks mates were an unusual group of men, maybe he'd misjudged the rest and could possibly find the right sort for his operations, after all. Out of all the hundreds of men here, there would have to be some who…..he cut himself off, shocked at his own thoughts. When did he even begin to consider staying and setting up operations? No. His mission was to escape. Period. Disturbed by the direction of his thoughts, he got up and took his book into his own room. If nothing else, sitting in there with Hughes would reinforce the idea that he needed to get out.

OoOoO

Hogan was glad to see that Lebeau's concoction and the nap perked up Newkirk enough that by noon roll call, he had a lot more energy and no problems making it through formation and to lunch.

Once more quietly listening to the men while they ate, Hogan marveled at the change in them. The grim, dispirited apathy from before gave way to smiles and friendly conversation. He even noticed the men at the surrounding tables had been infected by it and were far more lively than he'd ever seen them before. It was astonishing and Hogan worked to figure out why the return of just one man had made such a difference. For whatever reason, the Englishman was a polarizing figure in the camp and Hogan was perplexed by it all.

Studying the men quietly, Hogan began to understand—the Englishman had a bright presence that drew in others around him. Hogan had seen it himself when he'd visited the cooler. Despite Newkirk's shockingly insolent and disrespectful behavior, Hogan had been forced to admit to himself that he'd admired the man's spirit in the most wretched of surroundings. Now, under better conditions, the angry energy had been replaced by smiles, quips, good-natured insults, jabs at the guards…Newkirk made the men laugh and brought life to the camp in a way it had been missing. He was sarcastic and mouthy and irreverent, but his attitude somehow reminded the men that they were more than just prisoners, they were still _men_.

After lunch, Hogan broke away from the others and made his way to Klink's office. Waiting for once to be announced by the Kommandant's secretary, Hogan entered the office and saluted.

Returning the salute automatically, Klink looked back at his papers and said distractedly, "Col Hogan, what is it you want? We're expecting visitors next week and I must concentrate on these requisitions."

"I don't want anything, Kommandant, except to thank you."

Looking up in surprise, Klink said, "Thank me? For what?" Turning suspicious, he added, "Hogan, is this some kind of trick?"

"No trick. I haven't had a chance to thank you yet for letting Corporal Newkirk out of the cooler and I wanted to let you know how much the men and I appreciate it."

"Oh, well…" Klink seemed almost embarrassed. "I believe in firm discipline, but Newkirk had served his sentence and it _was_ Christmas."

"Well it was a nice surprise for the men and it really cheered them up. I'm curious, though, what made you change your mind?"

"I considered your request to release Newkirk and decided to check on him Christmas morning." Klink's face reflected a trace of the disgust he felt when remembering the condition of the man. "After a very stern conversation with him, I was convinced he understood what he had done was wrong, so I had him released."

Hogan would have loved to have been a fly on that wall during that conversation, imagining Klink blustering to Newkirk's contemptuous attitude. Then again, since he had convinced Klink he could be released, Newkirk was probably clever enough to know how to manipulate the German colonel and had behaved properly. The thought was disturbing. The Englishman would bear watching.

"I'm sure your talk helped, and I'll do my best to see to it that he behaves, Kommandant," said Hogan, although wondering if his best would be good enough to keep Newkirk in line.

"See that he does," said Klink. Then distracted by his paperwork, he added, "Is there anything else?"

"No. That was it. I'll leave you to your paperwork, then. Thanks again Kommandant."

Following an exchange of salutes, Hogan returned to the barracks and spent the rest of the afternoon with the men. He'd gone into his room a couple of times, but found Hughes' company more and more stifling as both of them were coming to the conclusion that their approaches to leadership were in direct conflict with one another and an air of tension permanently resided between them.

The men, Hogan found to his regret, remained wary around him. Through words and actions he could see that they were more accepting of him than Hughes—when the British officer entered the room, the men positively clammed up—but they still didn't treat Hogan as one of them like they had that one brief moment on Christmas Eve.

Hogan laid the blame for their continued unfriendliness somewhat in Newkirk's lap. While the rest of the men were beginning to at least tolerate him, Newkirk was unreservedly cold towards Hogan. Other than that brief hint during the incident with Harper, he wasn't contemptuous like he'd been in the cooler, but he made it clear that he considered Hogan another officer whose presence he endured only because he had no other choice. Hogan was confident if he was there long enough he'd eventually get Newkirk to accept him as his leader, and felt certain that once he had his respect, it would go a long way towards gaining a firm control over all the men.

Despite the lack of welcome, Hogan was relatively content the rest of the afternoon, sitting in a chair near the woodstove and reading a book. He actually did get into the book after awhile and only vaguely paid attention to the comings and goings of the men. A lot of prisoners from other barracks came by to see Newkirk, confirming once again Hogan's impression that the cocky corporal was a well-known figure in the camp.

His focus was caught deep within the book when the most surprising visitor of the day entered. It wasn't another prisoner, though. It was the guard from Barracks 3, Sergeant Schultz, who caused Hogan to put his book down.

"What can we do for you, sergeant?" asked Hogan, standing up.

"Please, Col Hogan, I just want to see how the Englander is."

Hogan was fairly certain who he was referring to, but asked anyway, "Englander? We have a lot of them here. Which one did you mean?"

"Corporal Newkirk, of course. I came to see how he was."

"Newkirk? Why?"

"Col Hogan, Newkirk has been here over two years and I have been his main guard the whole time until he moved in this barracks. He's a nice boy and I like to make sure he's okay."

Hogan blinked. He didn't know how to reply. A nice boy? That was the last thing he'd ever expect one of the Germans to say about Newkirk considering the reputation he had. And was he supposed to believe that a guard actually cared about a prisoner?

"'e's fine, Schultzie, come over 'ere and see for yourself," said Chapman quietly. "But don't make too much noise. 'e's takin' a nap and we don't want 'im woken up."

Hogan glanced over to Chapman, surprised to see that he was right and Newkirk was once again asleep. He'd been so involved in the book that he hadn't noticed Newkirk laying back down.

The big guard smiled his thanks at Chapman and went over to the bunk where Newkirk lay under a pile of blankets. When he bent over and looked at the prisoner, though, he frowned in concern.

"He doesn't look very good. Are you sure he's all right?"

"'e's a bit run down from bein' in the cooler so long, but 'e'll be right as rain soon enough. A little bit of sleep and good food and 'e'll be sorted before you know it."

Straightening up, Schultz smiled again. "That's very good. I am glad he is okay. You will tell me if he does not get better?" he asked, honest concern reflecting in his expression.

"Sure," said Hogan, getting back into the conversation. "We'll let you know."

Hogan didn't know why the big man cared, but seemed that Schultz's concern was genuine and he would do what he could to ensure the guard stayed sympathetic to them.

After Schultz left, Hogan walked over to where the Englishman was sleeping—Schultz had been correct when he said Newkirk wasn't looking very good. He was once more curled up on his side, pale and looking ill. Hogan went back to his chair and picked up the book, but his thoughts had been derailed and he found it hard to focus on the story. He flipped pages without really comprehending the words he'd read, waiting for roll call and hoping the nap would once again help his fellow prisoner.

OoOoOoOoOoO

By evening roll call, Newkirk had woken, but the extra energy he'd had earlier in the day had abandoned him. Although he was able to stand roll call and went with the others to the chow hall, he ate almost nothing and had to be helped back to the barracks where he went straight to bed.

By the morning, it was clear things weren't any better. Newkirk climbed out of bed with the help of a couple of men, not even pretending he could do it on his own. And at roll call, Sgt Carter, who stood behind him, had to steady him a couple of times when he started swaying. None of his friends even considered going to breakfast, but instead they practically carried the stumbling, shivering man back in the barracks and helped him to Carter's bunk where he collapsed. Hogan went along with them.

"Colonel, the corporal here is in a bad way. We need to get him some help," said Sgt Turner, turning to the senior officer.

For a split second, Hogan basked in the realization that one of the men had naturally and respectfully looked to him for leadership. It was about time. Then the more pressing need shoved that thought to the back of his mind.

"I understand there's no doctor on staff here and no infirmary. What's the standard procedure for medical help when a prisoner's sick here?"

"Usually we just take care of our own," said Chapman, sitting on the edge of the bunk next to Newkirk. "But sir, 'e's got a fever, and 'e wasn't exactly up to snuff already."

A fever? That wasn't good. Hogan was well aware of how run down Newkirk was and if he'd caught anything, he wouldn't have a lot of reserves to fight it.

"Has the Kommandant ever called in a doctor if one of the men was really sick?" asked Hogan, his mind immediately running through all possible ways to address this situation.

Turner shook his head. "No. They don't care if we're sick or even die. Figure we're enemies, so why bother?"

Hogan frowned. His impression of Klink was that the man was weak, but not cruel.

"Has anyone ever asked him?"

"Not Klink. That was Schwartz's rule, though. He was the previous Kommandant. Hated us and wasn't shy about letting us know."

"Hmmm. Well, I'll leave that as a later option if we can't help Newkirk ourselves. How are we supplied for aspirin? I know we got some with the last Red Cross packages. Do we have a enough left to help ease the fever?"

The men quickly scrounged amongst themselves and came up with over a dozen tablets that they brought over.

Hogan turned to Kinchloe, who was calmly standing by, ready to do what was needed to help his buddy.

"Kinch," he said, without thinking adopting the nickname Newkirk had used for the man, "go find the medic, Wilson. Check the chow hall and if he's not there, go to his barracks. Keep it quiet, though. Don't want the men to get worked up thinking there's anything wrong. And as far as we know, there isn't. Newkirk could just be run down and caught a bug."

"I'm on it, sir," replied Kinch, grabbing his hat and hurrying out the door.

Hogan turned back. "Chapman, you and Carter get Newkirk out of his jacket and boots, but leave the rest on for warmth. Turner, bring over a glass of water so Newkirk can take some aspirin. Harper, get a bucket of water. Turner, a cloth. A cool cloth on his forehead should help him feel better."

The men scurried to do Hogan's bidding, responding without hesitation to his easy authority as though all previous tension had never existed.

Within a few minutes, Newkirk was settled under blankets, had taken the aspirin, and Chapman was placing the dampened cloth on his forehead.

The sick man was drifting in semi-sleep when Kinch returned with Wilson.

Having been filled in on the situation by Kinch, the medic went straight over to the bunk and took the seat that Chapman vacated. He took the cloth away and placed the back of his hand on Newkirk's cheek and then forehead, checking his fever in the time-honored fashion before gently tapping on the side of his face to get his attention.

Newkirk startled awake.

"Easy, old son," Wilson said calmly. "Just let me see what's going on here."

Newkirk blinked up at the unfamiliar face guardedly. "'o are you?"

"I'm Joe Wilson. Your friendly neighborhood medic. Arrived while you were on your little vacation. They asked me to come to take a look at you."

"You're not Joe," Newkirk mumbled, frowning.

"What?"

"Hmm?" Newkirk wearily shook his head. "Uhm…sorry. I knew a Joe once. He…." he trailed off.

"S'okay," said Wilson. "How about you call me Wilson? Everyone around here does."

When Newkirk merely stared at him with glassy eyes, Wilson continued, trying to keep his patient focused. "I've been wanting to meet you, you know."

Newkirk's forehead scrunched up as he tried to follow what Wilson was saying. "What? Why?"

"Heard a lot about you."

"Nothing good, I wager."

"I'll never tell."

"Hmm." Newkirk started drifting again and Wilson lightly shook him.

"Hey, buddy, don't go to sleep. You need to tell me what's bothering you and if anything hurts."

Not answering, Newkirk closed his eyes.

"Come on," said Wilson, shaking his shoulder harder. "Not yet. I need to know how you're feeling. Newkirk…" He tapped the side of his face. "Hey! Does anything hurt?"

Newkirk roused and blinked a couple of times while processing the question. "Hurts?..."

Then his eyes cleared and the corner of his mouth turned up.

"Me...uhm...me left thumb."

It was Wilson's turn to be confused.

"Your left thumb hurts?"

"Nah, me left thumb is the only thing that doesn't," said Newkirk with a touch of a smirk before once more closing his eyes.

Wilson grinned, pleased that the man was aware enough to show a spark of humor. "That good, huh? Well let's see what the rest of you looks like," he said and started to lift Newkirk's shirt.

Newkirk's eyes flew open and cleared as he glared at Wilson, "Back off mate. What do you think you're doin'?"

"Newkirk…Peter…I'm a medic," Wilson explained patiently. "I just want to see if I can find what's making you so sick."

Fully awake, Newkirk started to push Wilson away, but a strong shudder overtook him and instead he curled up with a low moan.

Wilson tried to gently push his patient onto his back, but Newkirk batted at his hands.

"Stop."

A little less patiently, Wilson explained again, "I just need to examine you. Is it your stomach that hurts? I'll do my best to make sure I don't make it feel worse, okay?"

Curling up tighter, Newkirk shook his head. "Stomach's fine. There's nothin' you can do. Leave me alone."

"Peter, I can help you. Just relax."

"Was relaxed until you got here," Newkirk muttered tiredly, trying unsuccessfully to scoot back on the bunk away from the pestering man. "Just want to sleep."

Frowning at the man's recalcitrance, Wilson decided to try a new tactic. "Corporal, you're going to let me look at you and find out what's the matter. That's an order."

Newkirk blinked up at him. "Order?..."

"Sure…sergeant stripes, see?

"Order? Hmf. Not even in the same bleedin' army," Newkirk murmured, firmly establishing what he thought of Wilson's authority.

The medic put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder in order to push him onto his back, but the patient struck out again with unexpected strength, forcefully pushing Wilson away and then tucking his hands under his arms.

"Go away."

Lips tightening with annoyance, Wilson looked up at the men standing behind him. His eyes caught sight of someone who could help. "Colonel…"

Hogan nodded. Knowing what the English corporal thought of him, he'd stayed back, hoping Newkirk would respond to Wilson. Since that didn't work, though, it was time for him to take charge.

"Corporal Newkirk," he said, his voice firm, but not angry, "you're sick and Sergeant Wilson here is a medic. Now _I'm_ ordering you to cooperate with him so he can help you."

Even the glaze of fever didn't hide that Newkirk thought even less of Hogan's order than he had of Wilson's. "What part of 'no' is so 'ard for you to understand?" he asked sarcastically.

"Corporal…" Hogan warned, but then stopped. He caught a quick, worried look as Newkirk flicked his eyes over the other men who were hovering around the bunk. What? Could that be contributing to his unwarranted defiance? His audience? Army life made privacy a thing of the past and, given their circumstances, even the thought of it was laughable—it was ridiculous to think Newkirk would care. Hogan was tempted to just physically force him to cooperate, but then again, the man was genuinely ill and Hogan preferred to make things easy on him if possible.

"Wilson, how about we take Corporal Newkirk into my office? Might be easier if you have more room to work."

Hogan didn't miss the surprised look of relief on Newkirk's face before the man masked it with a scowl. Hiding a smile at guessing right, Hogan reached down and with Wilson's aid, helped Newkirk into his room and onto Hughes' bunk, grateful the English officer was out at the moment doing something with his two cronies, Wells and Mitchell.

Hogan considered staying to see firsthand what was wrong, but thought his presence might make things worse so decided to leave Wilson to take care of matters. He joined the men in the main barracks, none of whom were doing anything other than sitting around waiting to find out what was wrong with their friend.

It was only ten minutes or so later that the door opened and eleven concerned heads looked to Wilson for answers.

None were forthcoming. Instead, Wilson called out, voice tight, "Colonel, could you give me a hand in here."

OoOoOoOoO


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Hogan quickly moved to his office after the medic's request.

Following the colonel into the room, Wilson murmured, "You need to see this, sir," and firmly closed the door behind them.

At first Hogan didn't notice what Wilson meant. Newkirk was sitting at Hogan's table, facing them with his shirt off. He looked positively drained of energy, his arms on the table, head bowed down nearly resting on them.

It was only when Hogan got closer to the corporal that he saw what Wilson meant. Newkirk's back and shoulders were covered with black bruises and long skinny welts, a few of which had split the skin. At least two of those were clearly infected. The cause of Newkirk's fever was no longer a mystery.

Hogan was speechless. Someone had beaten one of his men. He didn't even stop to marvel at why he would feel protective of someone who, only a short while ago, he had cheerfully condemned to rot in the cooler. All he knew was that someone had beaten one of _his_ men.

Face flushed in anger, he finally choked, "What happened?"

Newkirk didn't react to his presence and Wilson could only shake his head, "Sir, you know as much as I do. Looks like someone used a belt on him. But honestly, what happened can wait for later. Right now, I need some help getting him fixed up and Newkirk only agreed to letting you in."

Still off-kilter, Hogan asked, "What? Me? Why?"

Newkirk didn't move a muscle, but spoke in a weary voice, "Me mates can't see this. It would cause all sorts o' ruckus and I won't let the other chaps get in trouble for me." He raised his head long enough to look at Hogan and add impassively, "Knew you wouldn't ruddy care," before losing the battle to keep his head up and slumping to his forearms.

Hogan swallowed the hurt those words caused, even though he knew he deserved them. He did care. He cared very much. Newkirk was right about one thing, though. There was a fierce loyalty amongst these men that Hogan was ashamed to admit he'd been too blind to see before, and if they saw what had been done to their friend, there was no doubt that some serious trouble would follow.

"What do you need me to do?" asked Hogan. Newkirk's impression of him wasn't the priority right now.

"I'd like to finish getting him undressed and then settled on the bed. I'll need help with that and then if you could build up the fire in the woodstove, it'd be good if it was a bit warmer in here."

Nodding his willingness to follow Wilson's lead, Hogan moved to the other side of Newkirk.

The medic knelt down and touched Newkirk's arm to get his attention. "Newkirk, did you hear what I just told Col Hogan? I'd like to get the rest of these clothes off so I can make sure there aren't any other injuries hiding. You think you can stand if we help you?"

Newkirk said something, but with his face buried in his arms it was too muffled to be understood.

"Sorry...couldn't hear you. What's that again?"

Lifting his head slightly, Newkirk repeated, "'ow about I just sit 'ere? There's nothin' else you need to look at."

Newkirk dropped his head again as if it were too heavy to hold up and drew in a shaky breath.

"Nice try, but I don't think so. I saw the way you were favoring your right leg when you came in here. Need to take a look at that too."

Hogan looked sharply at Wilson. He'd had to support a lot of Newkirk's weight helping him in here, but hadn't realized there was anything wrong with the man's legs. Maybe Wilson was mistaken.

Newkirk muttered something again into his arms, but this time Wilson didn't bother trying to get him to repeat it.

"Come on, up you go," he said, grabbing one of Newkirk's arms and nodding to Hogan to grab the other.

Between the two of them, they pulled Newkirk upright and then Wilson shifted most of Newkirk's weight to Hogan.

Head hung limply with eyes closed, Newkirk didn't even seem aware as the medic unfastened his trousers. The second Wilson started to tug on them, however, Newkirk's eyes flew open and he jerked in Hogan's arms.

"What the bloody 'ell do you think you're doin'?" he roared, catching both Wilson and Hogan by surprise at the strength of his shout.

"I told you. We need to get these off so I can fix you up."

"You can look at my back, but that's all I agreed to. You're steppin' over a line 'ere, mate," snarled Newkirk.

"I'm stepping over a line? Look pal, I thought we went through this already. I'm only trying to help you. Now I've also been around the block enough to know a snow job when I see one and I know there's something wrong with your leg. I'm guessing from the marks on your back that they go all the way down. Denying it won't make it go away, so you can stop being a princess and let me take a look."

"You want to keep those 'ands of yours, you keep 'em off me," threatened the corporal, his fever flushed face even redder than before.

"Hey, settle down," ordered Hogan. "Let's get you over to the bunk so Wilson can take a look at you."

"Over my dead body," hissed Newkirk. The argument was taking a serious toll on the man and he sagged heavier in Hogan's hold, but didn't in any way diminish the strength of his fury.

"Is that really what you want? 'Cause that's exactly what could happen if you don't let me treat you," said Wilson angrily, his voice matching the intensity of Newkirk's as his patience snapped. "Well, at least one thing I heard about you is true...you're one stubborn cuss! Now I'm a medic, dammit, and I'm trying to _help_ you, so quit pretending you're shy and let me do my job!"

Wilson reached towards Newkirk again, not expecting the man to lunge out of Hogan's grasp and plant a right cross on his chin. The medic staggered back, more from surprise than the actual force of the blow, but had the presence of mind to reach forward and catch the Englishman before his momentum took him to the floor.

"All right. That's _it_. Colonel, help me get him on the bed and we'll take his things off there," growled Wilson.

Hogan helped drag a twisting, squirming Newkirk to the bunk, where due to his struggles they were forced to pin him on his back to finish disrobing him. All three men out of breath by the time they were done, and Hogan was immensely relieved when he could step back—manhandling the corporal that way had made him uncomfortable, even if it was in the injured man's best interest.

Wilson looked uncomfortable himself and winced after he draped a blanket over Newkirk and stood up, realizing just how he'd treated his clearly upset patient. The furious man was hugging the blanket to his chest as his gaze swung wildly between first one man and then the other and back again, nearly hyperventilating as he sucked in air.

Wilson softly cursed at himself then took a deep breath and blew it out. "Look, I'm sorry. No one wants to make things worse, least of all me. I didn't mean to be so rough with you." He paused again and then said earnestly, "If I promise to be careful, could you roll over and let me dress those cuts?"

When his patient made no signs of responding, Wilson sighed deeply. "Come on man, please. I really am sorry. Look, it's gotta hurt lying on your back." He frowned, clearly aware he'd messed up. "I just want to help."

Newkirk locked his eyes on Wilson, not blinking.

"Please."

Newkirk stared a bit longer, but then with a deep sigh dropped his eyes. He seemed to deflate, relaxing his hold on the blanket, either aware this was a battle he couldn't win or too weary to expend any more energy on anger.

"Is it all right to help you roll over?" asked Wilson carefully, not about to upset his patient again.

Tight-jawed, a resigned shrug of one shoulder was the only response.

Taking that as an affirmative, Wilson said, "Colonel..." and gestured to indicate what was needed.

The two men pulled the blanket aside and then carefully rolled Newkirk over onto his stomach. Hogan had to clench his teeth to refrain from exclaiming when he saw the rest of the damage. Indeed, the welts and bruises continued down to Newkirk's calves, with an especially nasty and infected gash on the back of his right knee. Someone had done a thorough job on the man.

Wilson apparently had less compunction against voicing his opinion, for he whistled between his teeth and let loose a string of curses like Hogan hadn't heard in a long time.

It was Newkirk's reaction that struck Hogan hardest, though. He was dismayed to see the earlier anger replaced by a look of pure shame as the evidence of his beating was exposed.

"Beat me like a ruddy cur, he did," the corporal rasped, then turned his head to face the wall and added in a whisper, "Said it was the only thing someone like me understood."

Hogan closed his eyes for a brief moment, desperately wanting to comfort his stricken man but forcing himself to hold back. Considering Newkirk's volatile emotions, not to mention his distrust of officers, Hogan was afraid the man wouldn't welcome any friendly gestures from him.

His eyes popped open. If he never showed that he cared about his men, of course they wouldn't trust him.

He nudged Wilson out of the way and sat on the bed, adding another blanket as the fevered man began to shiver before cautiously putting a hand on an unmarked part of Newkirk's shoulder and squeezing it gently.

"These wounds aren't your fault, corporal, and no one is judging you for them. It's the kind of men that would do this that are animals," Hogan said quietly, trying to impart the truth of his words in the strength of his tone.

Hogan couldn't even tell if Newkirk heard him until the trembling man choked, "Bloody, bloody officers and their bloody lessons."

Officers? Hogan's pulled his hand away as if stung. Sure enough, Newkirk had misconstrued his attempts to comfort as some kind of lesson. Then his thoughts expanded. No. Newkirk wasn't talking about him. _This_ is what Klink meant by a 'stern conversation' to make sure Newkirk had learned his lesson. Hogan felt a renewed flush of anger burn through him. Whether or not Newkirk accepted it, he was Hogan's now and the Kommandant wouldn't get away with treating one of his men this way.

Wilson had to prod him to bring him back to the here and now.

"Sir, you mind if I get in there?

"What?"

"I'd like to get started cleaning up those cuts. Uh, and could you grab my bag over by the table?" Wilson pointed at the article.

"Huh? Oh…sure," said Hogan, grateful to be distracted by a task. He had to focus on helping Wilson right now. Dealing with the Kommandant would wait.

The medic, taking the spot Hogan relinquished, pulled the blanket down, exposing only Newkirk's back and shoulders.

"Now, you do your best to relax while I get you cleaned up, okay?"

Newkirk lay on his stomach with his head turned away, not reacting when Wilson carefully moved his arms out of the way so they were loosely circling his head.

Hogan pulled a chair over and sat, ready to help Wilson where he could. It was obvious the medic knew what he was doing, for as he started to clean the infected wounds, his movements were swift and confident and yet gentle so as to cause the least amount of discomfort as possible.

"You know your stuff, doc," Hogan complimented.

Not looking away from his work, Wilson said, "Got through two years of med school before I had to drop out to pay bills. This is all I ever wanted to do, although I have to say this wasn't quite the practice I was picturing."

"Well, we're grateful for it," said Hogan with sincerity. He was certain the prisoners would be in a lot worse shape if Wilson wasn't around.

They worked quietly for awhile, Hogan taking the role of doctor's assistant as Wilson steadily cleaned and bandaged the open cuts. There wasn't anything to be done for the bruising and welts except allow time to take care of them, but he did take the time to rub a thick salve into the chapped and cracked skin on Newkirk's face and hands where the wet cold had left its mark.

Wilson was calm and professional, keeping his patient covered with blankets except for where he was working in order to preserve as much of Newkirk's dignity as possible while also keeping the man warm.

For his part, Newkirk remained cooperative and didn't react at all to the medic's treatment except for tensing a few times as the cuts were cleaned out.

As they continued, Hogan and Wilson started up a quiet conversation about random topics, their low voices creating a calm hum as Wilson did what he could to clean and dress the cuts. He was almost down to the worst injury, the deeply infected cut on the back of the leg, when Newkirk's shivering increased.

Wilson stopped and put the back of his hand on Newkirk's cheek. "I think his fever might be going up. Sorry colonel, I forgot. Can you go ahead and build up the fire?"

Hogan, who'd also forgotten the task, nodded and stood up. He stoked the embers in the woodstove and put in some more firewood, standing back to make sure it caught. Within minutes, he could feel a bit of heat wafting out and Hogan rejoined the others.

As he sat back down and took a moment to really look at how much Newkirk's health had declined in just the past day, Hogan asked in concern, "Do you think the fever is just from the infections? When Newkirk got back from the cooler, we had a real problem warming him up."

"Really? Kinch didn't mention that," Wilson frowned. "How bad? Was he coughing or anything else?"

"No coughing, but I'd say he had full-blown hypothermia."

Wilson paused to look at Hogan. "Hypothermia?" He stared down at his patient, his mind running through what he knew about the condition. "Well, I don't expect it did him any good, but I think our main culprit for the fever is still the untreated cuts. You know, if he'd gotten them taken care of right away, he'd be in a lot better shape right now."

Hogan shrugged. "I hear you, but he hid them from all of us. Said he was just stiff from the cold."

Wilson shook his head. "I expect we can guess from his reactions just now why he didn't tell anyone." After a short pause while he picked up his cloth again and added, "Wonder how he got hypothermia, though. I've heard the cooler isn't exactly balmy, but there is some heat down there."

A soft voice interrupted his musings. "Ever try takin' a nice long ice water shower in the ruddy winter?"

Wilson started, thinking Newkirk had been only half-aware and not listening to them. He patted his patient's shoulder lightly and smiled, relieved that Newkirk's voice, although weak, had lost all trace of his earlier anger. Apparently the medic had been forgiven.

"Hot water not working, huh? Man, that must have been fun," he said sympathetically.

Hogan, while glad Newkirk didn't seem to be holding a grudge against Wilson, had a different reaction to Newkirk's question. He hadn't really put too much thought into it, but now that he tried to imagine what Newkirk had endured, Hogan didn't like the scenario he pictured. Hughes and his men had been gone a long, long time. What had they been doing? Newkirk would have had to shave, cut his hair, wash, go through delousing. Hogan hadn't put two and two together before, but now as he envisioned it all, he didn't see Hughes and his men simply standing back and watching Newkirk take care of things himself. Most likely they fully participated in it all, and considering how much Hughes hated the man, had made it as long, uncomfortable, and degrading an experience as they could. Furthermore, Hogan seriously doubted they took it easy on the man due to Newkirk's earlier beating. In fact, he'd be willing to bet a couple of those bruises came from them. He now wondered how much of Newkirk's condition when he returned to the barracks had been due to shock as well as cold. It certainly put his reluctance to be treated and manhandled in a different light.

While Hogan was contemplating the implications, Wilson had finished up everything except the back of Newkirk's knee. The medic frowned as he studied the raw, oozing wound.

"Colonel," he said, almost reluctantly, "I'm sure you can tell this last one's gonna be a doozy. I don't have anything to give him for the pain, so you'll have to hold his leg still."

Hogan blanched. He certainly wasn't squeamish, but he wasn't keen on the idea of holding down a man while he was essentially being tortured. There had to be a better way.

"Can it wait a bit? I could try to get some morphine. With any luck the Germans will have some they'd be willing to give us. I can ask the Kommandant."

Wilson agreed immediately. "Worth a try. At this point a few more minutes won't hurt and I'd really rather give him something first."

"All right. Be right back," Hogan said and wasting no time, grabbed his coat and was out the door in a flash.

The men in the outer room crowded around the colonel as he came out and started bombarding him with questions. Hogan hadn't even considered what to say to them, but he couldn't ignore the worried men and not tell them anything.

He held up his hand for silence. "Easy men. Just a minute."

When they'd quieted down, he said, "I don't have much time here, so I'll make it quick. Newkirk has a couple of...wounds…that are infected. And they're causing a fever. Wilson's trying to clean them out and I'm going to see if I can find some morphine to make it easier on all of us."

"Wounds?"

"How'd he get hurt?"

"Is he gonna be alright?"

"What kind of wounds?"

"Why didn't he say something?"

"Can we see him?"

The questions came fast and furious until Hogan once again held his hand up for silence.

"Fellas, the sooner I see about the morphine, the sooner Wilson can finish fixing him up. In the meantime, just be patient and stay out here. If Wilson needs more help, he'll ask for it."

After a few grumbles, the men quieted down and, seeing reluctant agreement, Hogan nodded and left without further word.

OoOoOoO

Hogan worked on his game face on as he hurried to the Kommandant's office. Every time he pictured the marks left by Newkirk's beating, he became furious all over again, but he couldn't afford to let it show. He'd find a way later to see to it that this _never_ happened again, but for now he had to stick to his mission and get medical supplies.

Hogan saluted smartly when he entered the office.

Returning the salute, Klink turned back to his ever-present paperwork and asked distractedly, "Yes, Col Hogan?"

"Kommandant, one of my men is sick and I'm here to ask you for a few things we need to fix him up."

Klink looked up worriedly at that. "Sick? What does he have? Is it contagious?'

It took all of Hogan's acting skills to keep his anger in check and maintain a straight, respectful expression on his face. The Kommandant was afraid of catching something, but didn't mind beating a defenseless prisoner? The man was a coward and a bully.

"Nothing contagious, Kommandant. He has an infected cut. We'll need some extra bandages, aspirin, disinfectant, as well as morphine and penicillin." He might as well ask for it all and see what he could get.

Klink frowned. "Col Hogan, is this a joke? Where do you think I would get penicillin? And morphine is for our front line units and hospitals. We don't have anything like that in a POW camp."

Hogan's disappointment actually surpassed his anger at Klink. He dreaded the thought of taking care of Newkirk's leg without the benefit of a painkiller. _Hmm. Painkiller_. Another thought crossed his mind.

"How about whiskey as a painkiller? Or bourbon? Schapps? Anything?"

Klink stood up. "Hogan, what is this?" he asked angrily. "We don't give prisoners alcohol. Why don't you ask for a case of wine and maybe some cheese to go with it while you're at it?"

"Well sure, those would be great. Thank you for offering. But I was hoping for something a little stronger that we could use for medicinal purposes. Our medic has to clean out that infected wound and I know you're not heartless enough to let a man suffer when he doesn't have to."

Hogan believed nothing of the sort, but was willing to say whatever it took.

The words seemed to have at least some impact on Klink, for the German officer sat down and frowned in thought. "Infected wound, you say? How? Which prisoner?"

Okay. This time Hogan _really_ had to bite his tongue.

"Corporal Newkirk. He has an injury…from his time in the cooler. It hasn't healed and it's a real mess. Oh, and before I forget, I'd also like to get him excused from roll call. There's no way he can even get out of bed right now."

Smug amusement replaced concern and Klink scoffed. "Really, Hogan? Newkirk? You expect me to believe that hooligan is ill and I need to not only excuse him from roll call but give him _whiskey_? Don't tell me you've already fallen for one of his schemes?"

Deadly serious, Hogan countered, "It's not a scheme. He's not plotting anything. And none of this was even his idea. I wanted morphine so Sgt Wilson and I won't have to hurt one of my men, whose well-being, incidentally, is _your_ responsibility. But if you don't have morphine, I thought maybe a stiff drink would help. Come and look at him for yourself if you want, but I'll warn you it isn't very pretty."

A guilty expression flitted over Klink's face. "Injured in the cooler, hm?"

Maybe Klink was remembering just how Newkirk came to be injured, for his expression once more shifted and he said, "Very well. Newkirk is excused from roll call for the rest of the day. Sergeant Zimmerman will check on him in the barracks instead. And you can also have Zimmerman get what bandages you need from supplies. And, yes, I have some brandy you can use. Our cook used part of the bottle last week, but you can have the rest." Then he added, "But I'm warning you, Hogan, if this is a trick, and I _will_ find out if it is, it will only make things harder on all your men."

Hogan was inwardly seething that he couldn't tell Klink exactly what he was thinking right now, but he was grateful to get as much as he did, so he saluted and said respectfully, "It's no trick. Thank you on behalf of my men, Kommandant."

He left before he could say anything he'd regret, anxious to get the supplies and back to the barracks. He'd been gone longer than expected.

OoOoo

The brandy wasn't the highest quality, but it was certainly potent and had an immediate effect on the underweight, dehydrated man. Hogan and Wilson had wrapped Newkirk in a blanket and held him up, placing a generous glass of brandy to his lips and helping him drink. When the glass was empty, Newkirk's head flopped back and he grinned at them.

"Now that's what I call medicine," he drawled. "Need ta do this more often." He frowned. "Nah. I'd rather skip the first part and go straight to the medicine. Think maybe I need some more?"

Hogan grinned back. "No. You've had enough, cowboy. How 'bout we get you settled back down and take care of that leg?"

Nodding agreeably, Newkirk said, "Right-o." He patted Wilson's arm and added, "Me new friend 'ere's been anxious to get on with things. I think 'e's got 'imself a date with a lovely bird."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "At least he's a happy drunk."

"Drunk? 'o's drunk? I can 'old me liquor. Nah. I'm jus…jus…what was the question?" Newkirk blinked in confusion at the others.

Hogan and Wilson laughed, enjoying the break in tension.

"Maybe we gave him too much," said Hogan, smiling broadly.

"Wouldn't mind having some myself," returned Wilson, but then his grin slipped, reminded of what he had to do as the two eased Newkirk down and he uncovered the wound.

Hogan sobered, too, as he looked at it again. The brandy might take the edge off things, but there was no way it would completely mask what Wilson was about to do.

"You ready pal?" asked Wilson, tapping Newkirk's shoulder as the cheerful patient hummed to himself.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure. Go right ahead."

Wilson went right to work, hoping to get done quickly. He tried to be gentle, but within a couple of minutes knew the brandy wasn't making enough of a difference as Newkirk jerked his leg away from the medic's efforts.

"Cor…what are you doin'?" Newkirk groaned, all traces of the happy drunk gone.

"Shh…take it easy. I'm sorry, but I've got to do this. If I don't you're just going to feel worse." He looked at Hogan and said, "Colonel, I'm going to need you to hold the leg still after all."

The next several minutes were ones that none of the three men would ever want to remember. The open wound was swollen, raw, festering, and Wilson was having a hard time clearing it out. Even with the brandy and Hogan holding the leg as still as possible, after awhile Newkirk was unable to stifle his moans and kept trying to pull his leg away from the agonizing pain stabbing at it. Then he jerked unexpectedly and his arm shot out, grabbing Wilson.

"Doc...I'm...I'm gonna..."

Cursing again, in a blink of an eye Wilson had grabbed the water basin with one hand and pulled his patient up expertly with the other. It was just in time for Newkirk to start heaving into the bowl. When he was finally done, the medic put the bowl down and gently laid the shuddering, limp man back on the bed. He used a damp cloth to wipe Newkirk's hot, sweating face.

"You're doing great, Peter," he said soothingly. "Now I'm going to let you rest a minute, okay? Just relax while I talk to the colonel."

Hogan had been standing by, wishing he could do something, _anything_, to help and quickly followed Wilson to the other side of the room when he gestured for his white-faced commander to follow him.

"Sir, this isn't going so well. We need to distract him somehow. Knock him out. I don't know. Something. The brandy didn't work. I should have known better than to give it to him on an empty stomach. Just made things worse. And there's still a lot of stuff embedded in this wound, like maybe he sat on the ground and got dirt in it. It's just…it's gonna take some serious digging and I can tell you it'll hurt. A lot."

Hogan felt his stomach clench. What they'd already been doing was bad enough. It was going to get worse? He looked over at the bunk and caught Newkirk watching them through almost-closed eyes. He wondered if the Englishman was even aware of what still awaited him.

Hogan returned his gaze to the unhappy medic. "I'll take care of it," he said and moved towards the door.

"Colonel," Wilson stopped him. "Could you also have one of the men get rid of this and bring some fresh water?" he asked, holding out the fouled bowl.

Hogan grabbed it and nodded, leaving Wilson to go back to tend to Newkirk while he once more was greeted by a barrage of questions when he went into the main barracks.

Raising a hand for silence, Hogan said, "I'll need someone to clean this out and get some fresh water."

One of the men, he didn't even notice who, grabbed the bowl without word and left to dispose of the contents.

Hogan in the meantime was looking around the room. He needed someone who...there. The French corporal, LeBeau had joined the group and would do perfectly.

"LeBeau, I'm going to need your help."

"Oui colonel?"

"Newkirk's not feeling so hot, as I'm sure you can guess. We need someone to talk to him, distract him, someone he trusts, while Wilson finishes taking care of things."

"Let me do it," piped in Chapman. "Peter's me mate. 'e'll listen to me and I can talk the ear offa anyone."

Hogan regarded the worried man. Although he didn't doubt that Chapman was right, he wasn't so sure Chapman would keep his temper under control after he'd seen what had been done to his friend.

"I'm sure you could," Hogan said kindly, "but let's have LeBeau take the first crack at it. You'll be the next one I call on if we need anything else."

Chapman, although not happy, nodded. Hogan could see he was getting more and more worried about his friend and the colonel realized the men, who'd been quietly awaiting word, must have heard some of what had been going on in the room. Although he wasn't about to tell them the whole story and possibly cause a riot, he owed them more of an explanation than they'd received so far.

"All right men, I'm not going to kid you. Newkirk has a nasty cut on his leg that Wilson's trying to get cleaned up, but he must have had it for days and didn't tell anyone about it, so now it's seriously infected and making him really sick."

"Just like the stupid sod to keep mum about it," muttered Chapman crossly, hiding worry behind irritation.

A couple of other men voiced their agreement with Chapman before LeBeau reminded the colonel of the immediate need.

"Colonel, can I go in now?"

"Sure. Of course. The rest of you...please just be as patient as you can. I'll let you know when there's more to tell."

Hogan took a clean pot of water handed to him and opened the door, gesturing LeBeau in.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, Hogan took LeBeau's arm before he could go to his friend and said in a low voice, "I didn't tell the men the whole truth. Newkirk has more than just the cut on his leg. The Germans beat him and..." he held up his hand when LeBeau drew up and opened his mouth. When the Frenchman closed his mouth, he continued, "...and he has several other injuries. But I need you to keep your head. One of the reasons Newkirk didn't say anything was because he didn't want anyone to get angry and do something stupid. Now I'm trusting you to take care of your friend without flying off the handle, got it? That's why I chose you instead of Chapman. I need you..._Newkirk_ needs you to stay calm."

LeBeau was visibly angry. "I won't do anything right now," he said tightly. "But if those filthy bosche think they can get away with locking Pierre up for months and then hurting him, then they've never seen what an angry Frenchman can do."

"LeBeau," hissed Hogan. "That's exactly what I was talking about. How do you think Newkirk will feel if you get yourself thrown in the cooler or worse because of him? I'll find a way to take care of this myself later. I promise. But I don't need anyone going off half-cocked and making more of a mess of things."

LeBeau scowled, but when he saw the serious look on Hogan's face, he shook his head and made an effort to calm himself. "You're right, colonel. Newkirk needs me now and I won't do anything. But when you do think of a way to pay back the bosche, you'll let me help?"

Seeing things were okay for now, Hogan released LeBeau and gave him a quick smile. "I promise to keep you in mind. If there's something you can do to help, I'll let you know."

That was good enough for LeBeau, who nodded and slowly approached the bunk. The Frenchman turned pale when he saw how much worse his friend looked in just the short time he'd been in the officers' room.

He dropped to his knees and put a tentative hand on Newkirk's head. "Mon ami..."

"Louis?"

Hearing Newkirk speak didn't reassure any of the men in the room. The voice was raw, weak.

"Oui, I brought you some more soup, but I think it will keep for now, eh? How about instead you rest while I tell you what Jean, Albert, and Laurent have been up to. They've been busy while you were in the cooler."

Newkirk said something too softly for Hogan to hear, but it appeared that LeBeau was holding his attention for now, so he gestured for Wilson to begin his work again.

With a shared grimace, Hogan once more clasped down on Newkirk's leg while Wilson resumed cleaning it.

For awhile things proceeded well. LeBeau started telling an animated story, complete with gestures and sound effects, while Wilson worked as quickly and delicately as he could.

Hogan, however, found his role difficult, keeping Newkirk's leg still while trying to keep himself from watching the medic digging into the open wound. The blood and ooze and raw flesh were not something he wanted to remember when he tried to sleep that night. In fact, Hogan wished he could be caught up in LeBeau's story, but the confounded man was speaking in French. He wondered how LeBeau hoped to keep Newkirk's attention like that, but every once in awhile the Englishman said something quietly to LeBeau, so he guessed it didn't matter whether or not Newkirk could understand him, as long as he could hear his friend's voice.

Then things got harder again once Wilson started digging deeply and, before long, Newkirk was clamping his teeth tight trying to prevent any noise from escaping.

LeBeau glanced at Hogan and Wilson, then leaned over Newkirk, putting an arm over him and speaking directly into his ear, shielding the others from seeing his friend's struggles. He continued his storytelling in rapid French.

Hogan was finding it harder to keep Newkirk still, as the man was involuntarily trying to pull away his leg. Despite his increasing weakness, he still had enough strength to jerk his leg and cause Wilson to hiss at his commanding officer to hold him _still_.

A sharp cry was followed by Newkirk's increased struggles and Hogan pressed down with all his weight.

"Pierre, Pierre...hey!" LeBeau lightly slapped the side of Newkirk's face to get his attention back. "Are you almost done?" he asked, turning to Wilson angrily.

"You think I'm hurting him on purpose?" snarled back the medic, not looking up from his work. He was pulling open the wound to get to some stubborn debris and didn't have time to be distracted.

"LeBeau," warned Hogan sharply. "Focus. Talk to him," he ordered, gesturing with his head to the writhing man.

LeBeau turned back to Newkirk and said something, but the Englishman was beyond hearing.

"God have mercy!" Newkirk grated out in a wail as Wilson dug into his knee, then suddenly went completely limp. Newkirk had finally passed out.

"Oh, thank God," said Wilson with heartfelt relief as he sat back looked at the others in an exhausted stupor. He was pale and trembling himself. But he didn't allow himself much rest before turning back to the task at hand.

Hogan looked at LeBeau, not surprised to see tears running down the distressed Frenchman's cheeks.

Hoping to take his mind off his friend's condition, Hogan said, "So, what were you telling Newkirk? You were speaking in French?"

Glancing down at Newkirk, LeBeau's nodded seriously. "Oui, I thought if I made him concentrate on the French, it would be harder to focus on other things."

Hogan was confused. "But don't tell me he could understand you?"

LeBeau looked at Hogan and gave him a little smirk, "When I first got here, I was assigned to Barracks 3 along with seven other Frenchman…at that time they tried to group us by country. There weren't enough of us to fill a whole barracks, so we had some British men with us and Newkirk was one of them. After awhile they spread the other Frenchmen out into different barracks and of course, Newkirk was eventually moved here. But for about 6 months we were all together and he learned to speak with us." Looking back at Newkirk he smiled sadly in affection. "Now he pretends he doesn't understand anymore, just to make me mad, but mon ami has an ear for languages. He speaks it pretty well, too."

Hogan considered this latest insight. It went to show you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. Based on Newkirk's rough behavior and strong accent, he wouldn't have pegged him as someone who spoke at least two other languages, if he was right and man also spoke German. It made him wonder what other talents might be hidden behind his brash and mouthy exterior. More than that, it made him wonder what other talents the rest of his Barracks 2 'troublemakers' might have.

His musings were interrupted when Wilson sat back with a huge sigh and said, "That's it. I've done all I could. Now I'll just get this bandaged and we'll have to hope for the best."

OoOoOoO

A/N: Well, the main ideas in this chapter were actually supposed to be in a single scene at the end of chapter 4 (it's all part of the same day), but between chapter 4 growing too large and realizing I wanted to do more with this scene, I expanded it, added a couple other small scenes, and made it its own chapter. I needed to give Hogan a chance to get worked up enough to realize how much he really did care about his merry band of misfits. Hope that came through rather than this being just an eternal, annoyingly long scene.

As an aside, I do respond to everyone who reviews, but a few people don't sign in so I can't send a note back. Just wanted to say "thanks" to them. I really enjoy hearing from you all!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

To everyone's relief, Newkirk didn't stir while Wilson was bandaging his leg, nor when Hogan and Wilson dressed him in the nightshirt LeBeau fetched from his bunk. When they were done, Wilson pulled Hogan off a few feet away to talk quietly.

"Sir, do you think it would be all right for Newkirk to stay in here?" asked Wilson. "It's a bit warmer and certainly quieter. Even if the guys tried to keep it down, there's always a lot of coming and going, guards making noise and such, in the other room."

Hogan rubbed a hand over his face—dealing with Newkirk's injuries had been as draining as a forced march and had left him raw and weary, making it hard to think. "Of course. He uh...can use that bunk. Group Captain Hughes can just use mine. I'll sleep out with the men."

"Sir…" Wilson paused uncertainly.

Waiting for Wilson to continue, Hogan finally prompted, "Yes?"

"Well, sir, are you sure that's the best idea? I mean, maybe you should stay in here so you can help Newkirk if he needs anything during the night."

Hogan shook his head. "No. It's bad enough I'm commandeering his bunk, I'm not going to kick Hughes out of his room as well. If anything comes up he can't handle, he can come and get me."

Expressionless, Wilson said, "All right, sir."

Hogan waited. Wilson looked like he wanted to say more, but when the medic looked away, Hogan shrugged it off. He still could still feel the tense and straining muscles as Newkirk had tried to pull his leg away while Hogan held him down. He could still see Wilson digging around in the wound...smell the scent of blood. Right now, he didn't have the energy to figure out what might be bothering Wilson. So when Wilson said, "How about we make sure Newkirk is settled, sir?" he just nodded and the two joined LeBeau over by the bunk where the Frenchman was tucking Newkirk under several blankets.

The injured man lay on his side, facing into the room. Asleep or unconscious, with the flush of fever coloring his cheeks, he looked young and innocent, nothing like the man Hogan remembered from the cooler. It was almost like there were two separate Newkirks—the one whose bright presence brought life to his companions; and the insolent, hardened man whose bitter contempt had so infuriated Hogan. Maybe in time Hogan could reconcile the two—it was an interesting puzzle. For now, however, he was too worn down to figure it out and all he could focus on was doing what he could to see that the man survived, whoever he was.

A quiet knock disrupted his musings.

"Yes?"

Chapman poked his head into the room.

"Sir, since LeBeau was gettin' Newkirk's nightshirt, I was thinkin' you might be about finished, and…and I was wonderin' if I could come in and see how me mate was doin'."

Hogan looked at Wilson for confirmation the medic was done and then nodded at Chapman. "Sure. That would be fine, except there isn't much to see. He's asleep now."

Chapman didn't smile, worry evident in his expression but gratitude clear in his voice as he said quietly, "No problems, sir. We just…we heard a bit of the ruckus in 'ere and I 'ad to make sure meself that Peter was all right."

Hogan was pretty sure Newkirk was far from 'all right' at the moment, but as he was wrapped snug in the blankets with only his head showing, at least Chapman wouldn't be able to see what had been done to his friend.

"Cor…'e looks done in," whispered Chapman as he walked over the bunk. "'ow was 'e 'urt?"

"He has a scratch on his leg," answered Wilson. "Doesn't look like he cleaned it and now it's badly infected." Tired and worried that he hadn't done enough for his patient, Wilson let his frustrations slip as he added in a lecturing tone, "You know, if he'd had it looked at right away, it would be well on its way to healing by now."

Chapman rolled his eyes. "You think 'e should've made a fuss over a scratch? 'e's no pansy."

LeBeau looked up, indignant, "A scratch! He was…"

"LeBeau," warned Hogan, for both the volume as well as what he shouldn't be saying.

LeBeau ducked his head, backtracking with a muttered, "Well, it was a bad scratch."

Fortunately, Chapman was more interested in his friend's condition than paying attention to the little Frenchman's outburst. Still looking at Wilson, he asked, "So what does it mean for 'im? Since 'e didn't get it looked at? 'e doesn't look so good right now."

"No. He doesn't. And it isn't a sign of weakness to look after your health. Especially in a place like this, you have to be stupid to ignore something like that."

Chapman scowled at the criticism. "Watch yourself, doc. Me mate isn't stupid…and you still 'aven't answered me question. Is 'e goin' to be all right?"

Realizing he was sniping at the wrong man, Wilson's shoulders drooped. Frustrated, upset, he finally vocalized what he'd been thinking. "How should I know? Without any medicine it's up to him, and I don't know if he's strong enough. Even without this, he was pretty run down from his time in the cooler. I'm not sure if he can beat it."

All three men looked at Wilson with equal expressions of dismay. They knew Newkirk was ill, but not that bad.

"Doc…" protested Hogan.

Wilson winced. He must be tired. That was an overly pessimistic outlook, especially when it was too soon to tell.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that—guess I'm a little tired. Yes, he's very ill, but at this point there's really no indication he can't fight it. If we make sure he's warm, comfortable, hydrated, get some food in him when we can, and keep things clean, he has a good shot."

Hogan relaxed when he heard Wilson's more optimistic outlook. "Okay. Then that's what we'll do. Wilson, you just tell me what we need, and I'll do my best to arrange it. Chapman, I'm putting you in charge of arranging a roster of men to watch over Newkirk. Someone to sit with him and help him with whatever he needs. LeBeau, I don't know how you did it, but that soup you brought Newkirk smelled incredible. You're in charge of feeding him, whether that means bringing food from the mess hall or making it yourself. Okay fellas, any questions?"

Wilson and Chapman nodded right away, finding strength in Hogan's take-charge attitude. Clear, strong leadership was just what they needed right now and they were relieved when Hogan naturally provided it.

LeBeau nodded as well, but he looked a bit concerned.

"What is it, corporal?" asked Hogan.

"I will happy to do as you said, naturellement, but if you remember, I'm assigned to Barracks 3. Sometimes we are confined to our own barracks and I wouldn't be able to come here."

Hogan frowned. "I didn't think about that. You're right." He reflected for just a moment and then said, "The simplest solution would be to move you here. How would you feel about that?"

Hogan was worried LeBeau wouldn't want to be put in with 'troublemakers,' but the Frenchman lit up at the suggestion.

"Really? That would be great. A lot of my friends are here."

Hogan hid a grin. He might have guessed that LeBeau would have a lot of friends amongst the men of Barracks 2. In fact, now that he thought about it, he wondered why the fiery Frenchman hadn't already earned himself a place with the rest of the camp's undesirables.

"Then it's settled. Chapman, you take care of the roster while I go talk to Klink and see what I can do about getting LeBeau moved. LeBeau, in the meantime, you see what you can find in the way of decent food. We'll give Newkirk every advantage we can to help him recover."

Given their assignments, the men quickly dispersed to take care of their tasks while Hogan visited the Kommandant to get permission to move LeBeau. He had expected to have to persuade the German officer and had all his arguments lined up. He was almost disappointed at easy it was. Klink was still fretting over his important visitors for next week, so he approved the move without any discussion and dismissed Hogan, who went to find LeBeau to tell him he would be authorized to move the following day.

OoOoOoO

Later that morning, Hogan was leaning back with his feet on his desk and reading a book when Hughes finally returned from whatever he'd been up to. Hogan had volunteered to sit with Newkirk while the roster was being set up, so he was alone in his room with the sleeping man when Hughes walked in.

The British officer's usual aplomb was absent as he took one look at Newkirk and then turned to Hogan.

"Sergeant Mitchell told me you what you did," he said coldly. "That you let _him_ in here. I could scarcely believe it. And yet here he is, in my bed."

Hogan dropped his feet to the floor and smirked. "Seriously? 'Somebody's sleeping in my bed.' What's the matter, John? Your mom read you "Goldilocks" too many times when you were a kid?"

"This is no laughing matter and mockery won't change the facts. It's not appropriate to have enlisted in with the officers. There must be some sense of decorum even in a prison camp. Maybe especially in a prison camp. And yet you give that rabble my bed. Do you expect me to sleep on the floor?"

Hogan's humor disappeared and he frowned. "As a matter of fact, no. You can have my bunk. I'll sleep out with the men."

That didn't seem to mollify the Brit, however. "Me? Sleep in here with him? Not bloody likely. I'd rather sleep in the kennels than with him."

Hogan stood up, disbelief warring with irritation. Hughes certainly had an unhealthy hatred for Newkirk. "Newkirk is one of our men and it's our duty to take care of him. As an officer you should know that. What's wrong with you, anyway?"

"With me?" said Hughes, with a disgusted sniff. "Nothing's wrong with me. Other than the fact that you're undermining everything I've achieved by pampering this piece of filth. Already I can see a change in the men. Taking care of...of _that_, even giving him my bed, encourages the other men. Before you know it they'll be up to their old tricks again. You have no idea what it was like before I cracked down. Thefts, fights, brazen insubordination...all instigated by him." Hughes pointed at the bed. Noting Hogan's scowl, he continued, "Ah yes, you dare to judge me without knowing the facts."

Hogan crossed his arms. "The facts? The facts are clear enough, Hughes. Corporal Newkirk's ill and needs attention. It's warmer and quieter in here, so this is where he needs to be. Those are the facts we should be concerned with. Not what he did in the past or even what he'll do in the future. If he causes trouble later on, we'll deal with it then, but for now we do what we can to help him."

"He's a thief."

"Yes, you told me."

"And a liar."

"You told me that too. So?"

"So he stirs the men up, pushing them, putting ideas in their heads, leading them into trouble, a despicable rabble-rouser."

"Well so far I haven't seen it and the men seem to like him well enough. You know all I hear from you is generalities, but you still haven't given me details on what he's done."

Hughes looked at Hogan scornfully. "Of course they like him. Like I told you, they follow his lead. He's a pied piper for all the rats in this camp, even if they are in human form. Hogan, you aren't listening. I grew up seeing this kind of man. He comes from the gutters, where he learned to use whatever tricks he can to beguile and charm and then take what he wants. And if others get hurt along the way, it's nothing to him."

"You're still just spouting rhetoric, Hughes. What..has...he...done?"

"Very well. I already told you about him stealing young Walker's cake and then laughing at his distress. He's also stolen from other men and the guards. Do you want dates, names?"

Hogan paused. Truthfully, it did bother him that Newkirk would steal from his fellow prisoners. But the guards were a different story.

Deciding to play devil's advocate, Hogan shrugged, "While I don't condone him stealing from our own men, it's not necessarily a bad thing to give the Krauts a hard time."

"I agree. Not in general. And the occasional scarf or glove here and there to annoy the guards might have been amusing, but once he took an entire crate of beer which the guards had bought for a party. An entire crate! They found the bottles later, empty. Needless to say, they were furious and the entire camp was punished."

Hogan winced. Bad move. He could imagine that wouldn't have gone over too well. While he was pondering on how Newkirk could have stolen a crate of beer without being detected, Hughes continued.

"And in addition to Walker's cake, he's taken so many things from the prisoners I can't count them. Small things in general, but in our situation even small things are very important. And as I told you, many of the men see Newkirk's brash behavior as something to be admired. There was a young man, Phillips, who used to follow Newkirk around like a puppy. The lad couldn't have been more than 18 or so and he looked up to Newkirk as a big brother, a role model. I warned him off, but he never listened. He tried to emulate Newkirk's more colorful behavior and eventually ended up causing enough trouble that the Kommandant had him transferred. Transferred! Phillips was hardly more than an innocent boy and was sent to Stalag 8, where, if you know anything about the other camps, you'll know they send the worst of the lot. Prisoners who are criminals...murderers, hard cases. I'd be surprised if the lad is even still alive. And what did Newkirk have to say about it? Nothing. He didn't care as long as he wasn't sent as well. The man has no morals, I tell you."

Hogan glanced at Newkirk and back to Hughes. Mischief was one thing, but getting others into serious trouble was another. Maybe he had been a little harsh in his judgment of Hughes. Newkirk hadn't seemed to be that disruptive, but then again, he'd been injured and ill so maybe he wasn't up to causing real trouble yet.

Seeing from Hogan's face that he was finally getting somewhere, Hughes pushed on. "Those examples are just the tip of the iceberg, Hogan. I have dozens more just like it. Let's not forget the day-to-day examples of his uncontrollable nature. Unsanctioned escape attempts, shirking during work details, remarks during roll call to needle the guards. You must understand. When I call him trash there's a reason for it. I grew up in London and saw his like my whole life. You can't appeal to his better nature because he doesn't have one. His kind can't. He was born in the gutter and that's where he belongs. What you see in that bunk isn't a real picture of the man. No, you saw the real man in the cooler. Vile, disrespectful, angry, full of contempt for authority and only out for himself."

While Hughes paused for breath, Hogan reflected back on his first impression of Newkirk. He remembered clearly thinking that if he ever was released, he'd most likely bring nothing but chaos and dissention. Well, things did change once he was released, but so far not in any negative way. If anything, the men were friendlier than before and things were running much smoother. Hogan held back a sigh. He'd like to think that he and Hughes could get back on a better footing, but on the other hand, things were not as black and white as Hughes would have it. Once Newkirk was well…_if_ he got well…he might cause problems, but at least for now, his presence had actually improved things in camp. He had a lot to think about. In the meantime, he would agree to sleep in the room with Newkirk, and the British officer would just have to suffer the 'indignity' of sleeping out with the men.

OoOoO

The rest of the day, as well as the next few, passed quietly. Chapman had set up a rotating list of volunteers who took turns sitting with their sick friend during the day, helping with whatever Wilson asked of them. The medic had also practically taken up residence in Hogan's room and would shoo them out when changing bandages, but they were a great help with the other chores. They fetched wood for the stove, coaxed Newkirk to drink some water or sip a bit of the tasty broth LeBeau kept simmering, changed the bedsheets to keep Newkirk as comfortable as possible, and helped out in a dozen other small ways to make sure their comrade was taken care of as well as they were able to considering their situation.

Hughes and his cronies spent as little time as possible in Barracks 2, the British officer and men preferring to visit other barracks or hang out in the recreation center. It suited Hogan fine. With those three gone, the men seemed a lot more relaxed and the lighter atmosphere helped Hogan with his renewed efforts to get to know them.

Hogan wasn't on the rotating schedule of men who sat with Newkirk, but he did keep an eye on the sick man, especially at night. The rest of the time he was finally getting to know the men of his barracks better, as well as visiting other barracks, genuinely talking and listening to the men for the first time. He was quickly realizing that he'd foolishly misjudged the lot of them, mistakenly comparing the behavior of the prisoners to that of his former crew and flying mates. Once he took the blinders off, he came to understand that the circumstances were so unequal that he needed to judge these men using a different set of criteria. The attitude of a proud, boastful flyer getting ready for a mission shouldn't ever be compared with that of a prisoner whose every move was dictated by the enemy. No, what he had taken for sullen, dispirited behavior from his fellow POWs was more likely a coping mechanism for men whose slightest misstep could land them in a worse situation than they were already in. It was an interesting revelation to him and, as he took the time to interact with the men based on his new understanding, he came to see that there was so much more to them than he'd originally thought.

That happy development, however, was balanced by the struggle going on in his own barracks. While Newkirk continued to hold on, after several days Hogan could see that Wilson was getting more and more worried. The infection raged on and the fever still hadn't broken, leaving Newkirk weaker and weaker by the day.

By noon roll call on New Year's eve, a pall of worry had settled over the barracks. Just before they were hustled out to formation, LeBeau had been in with Newkirk, trying to get him to sip some broth, or even water, but Newkirk kept turning his head away, uninterested. Defeated, the Frenchman had had to leave his friend for roll call, but afterwards he and several others gathered around Hogan while the the rest of the formation ambled over to the mess hall.

"Colonel, he's getting worse. I can't get him to eat anything," said LeBeau anxiously.

"His fever's higher, too. Something's gotta give, colonel," added Kinch.

"'e barely even opened his eyes once this mornin'," Chapman said in a fearful voice Hogan had never thought to hear from the brash Englishman. "Sir, we need to do somethin' else 'fore we lose 'im.'"

Hogan grimaced. He agreed with all of them and had come to the same conclusion himself that morning.

"I know. LeBeau, you go back and see if you can get him to take at least a little bit of water. Kinch, go to the chow hall and tell Wilson to get back to the barracks as soon as he's done eating. The rest of you, go grab some food, too. I'm going to talk to the Kommandant again and see if there's anything he's willing to do."

Hogan made his way quickly across the compound and up the stairs to the Kommandant's office. He barely took the time to smile at the beautiful Helga before entering Klink's office.

"Yes, Colonel Hogan?"

"Kommandant, Corporal Newkirk's getting worse. I've come to ask if there's anything you can do. Any medicines you'd be willing to get for him. Otherwise, I don't know if he'll make it."

"Yes, I've had Sergeant Zimmerman report his condition to me. I didn't realize it was so bad, though."

Hogan's eyebrows raised. Klink had asked for reports on Newkirk? Zimmerman had poked his head in several times a day to make sure Newkirk was still there, but Hogan hadn't realized that the Kommandant was even aware Newkirk was still sick.

"You look surprised, Hogan. Yes, it is my duty to see that the prisoners are locked up, but also to see they are kept in reasonable health. We Germans are not monsters, you know."

"Uh, right. Well, in that case maybe you can do something to help him. I'm serious, Kommandant, he's in a bad way. He's barely holding on."

Klink actually looked concerned. "Hogan, you should have come to me earlier. There's a doctor in Stalag Four I can call for emergencies."

"Stalag Four? A doctor?" Hogan bit his tongue. So why hadn't Klink offered to call him the first time he'd come for help?

"Yes, it's a bit of a distance, but he should be able to be here tomorrow, barring any complications."

Hogan swallowed an urge to shout at the Kommandant. A doctor. Who could be there the next day. Dammit! Newkirk needn't have suffered so long. What if he didn't make it because of the delay? And he couldn't forget it was all Klink's fault in the first place. What kind of a man could beat a helpless prisoner, but then seem genuinely worried when that same prisoner didn't recover?

Once again, however, Hogan was finding that he would have to bottle up his thoughts. Klink was going to call for a doctor and that was too important to jeopardize.

"Thank you, Kommandant. That would be great," he said instead, even managing to sound respectful.

OoOoOoO

Hogan walked to the barracks, trying to make sense of his encounter with the Kommandant. The German had actually seemed concerned about Newkirk...but Newkirk's beating had been brutal. How could someone do that and then act as if doing the right thing mattered? Hogan huffed to himself. Maybe in the German army, beating someone who couldn't fight back was the right thing to do. It made him sick.

Trying to decipher Klink's behavior distracted him enough that Hogan was halfway through the barracks before he stopped short, finally noting a tense and hostile atmosphere. Flicking his eyes around the room in alarm, he zeroed in on Sergeant Wells leaning against the door to the officers' room, arms crossed.

"What's going on here?" Hogan asked sharply.

LeBeau, who was practically hopping up and down in anger, spat, "He kicked me out, colonel. Said I had to wait out here."

"Wells? What are you playing at?" Hogan of Hughes' lackey.

"Non! Not him, Group Captain Hughes," said LeBeau. "_He's_ just guarding the door," added LeBeau pointing at Wells.

Hogan looked back at LeBeau. "Hughes? Why?"

Wells answered casually, "He had some business in there with Sergeant Mitchell. Didn't want to be disturbed."

Hogan released his breath at the calm, rational response, feeling foolish for having been so alarmed. Nothing was really wrong—just LeBeau overreacting.

"LeBeau," Hogan said patiently. "Sometimes an officer needs to talk to his men in private. You know that."

"But what about Newkirk?" LeBeau pressed heatedly.

"Most likely he's still asleep. They won't mind him being in there."

"That's not what I mean. What will they do to him?"

"Do to him? LeBeau, even if he wakes up, they'll probably just ignore him. And if he needs anything, they can get one of us."

"You don't understand," LeBeau shouted. He muttered several phrases in French, no doubt curses, and tried to shove past Wells.

The large British sergeant pushed LeBeau back with barely any effort, knocking the corporal to the floor.

"Hey, no need for that," exclaimed Hogan as he helped LeBeau up. "Settle down, both of you."

LeBeau yanked his arm out of Hogan's hand. "Colonel, they will _hurt_ him," he insisted angrily.

Only through great effort did Hogan keep from showing exasperation over LeBeau' paranoid suspicions. Hughes would hardly allow one of their own men to be hurt. Still, if it would calm things down, it wouldn't hurt for him to check things out.

"Look, if it'll make you feel better, I'll go in there myself and see to it that Newkirk's okay. All right?"

LeBeau's eyes glittered with anger, but he clamped his mouth closed and nodded.

"Okay, then. Wells, move aside."

The sergeant hesitated but seeing determination on Hogan's face, he did as ordered and stepped away from the door.

Hogan opened it and went inside, closing the door behind him before looking into the room. The scene before him stopped him cold in disbelief.

Newkirk was on the floor, lying on his back with Mitchell pinning his legs down. Hughes had one hand pressing on Newkirk's mouth and a belt in his other hand. Newkirk was tugging on Hughes' hand covering his mouth, but the ill man was too weak to even budge the hand. All three were so involved in their own drama that they didn't notice Hogan's entrance.

"What will it take for you to learn your lesson?" Hughes was rasping in a harsh, but low voice. "I warned you against playing to Hogan's sympathies." He raised his hand and viciously struck Newkirk with his belt. Newkirk jerked and tried to cry out, but Hughes' hand kept him silent, the trapped man completely helpless to stop him as he quickly struck again.

Hogan had heard the expression 'blinded by fury' before, but never thought he'd experience it himself. His mind went blank. Not even aware of crossing the room, Hogan yanked Mitchell up with one hand and delivered a blow so hard it knocked the man out cold. Before Mitchell even hit the floor Hogan had snatched the belt from Hughes' hand and threw it across the room, then grabbed Hughes' arm and violently tossed the man after it. None of these actions were a conscious decision on Hogan's part. In fact, he couldn't even remember doing them later. All he knew was a white-hot rage at seeing his fellow officer, who should be his partner in protecting their men, instead brutally attacking one of them.

The haze started to clear when he turned back to Newkirk, who was curled up tight, shaking, struggling to control his breath. Hogan dropped to his knees, his hands hovering as he tried to decide if Newkirk had new injuries he had to avoid. Movement from the other side of the room pulled his attention away. It was Hughes, back on his feet and coming towards them.

Hogan was up and shoving Hughes back against the wall before the English officer knew what hit him.

"You did this! It was never Klink that beat him. It was _you_. You and your men," he snarled.

If Hogan hadn't been so furious, he might have been impressed with the way Hughes held his ground, even in the face of the American's intense rage.

"You don't know him as I do," spat Hughes, not even a hint of fear in his hate-filled eyes. "You only see him as he is…someone who needs care and attention. But I tell you when he's healthy he's pure poison…a criminal who will infect the rest of the men with his corrupt ways. Mark my words. You'll see."

"It doesn't matter. An officer doesn't beat his men. If we were home I'd have you court-martialed!"

"Court-martialed? You ignorant fool! You're playing right into his hands. He's lying there gloating while you protect him. I tell you a good thrashing is the only thing that keeps his sort in line!"

Hogan threw a right cross that knocked Hughes flat on the floor.

"You ever think about touching one of our…one of MY men again, and that'll feel like a love tap," he threatened, his voice hoarse with anger and promise of retribution. "The man couldn't gloat if he wanted to. He's half dead thanks to you," Hogan snarled.

He reached down and yanked Hughes up by his shirt collar and twisted his arm behind him, then frog-marched Hughes to the door and opened it, shoving him out into the main barracks with a kick to the backside.

With the immediate threat out of the way, Hogan flew back to Newkirk. The beaten man hadn't moved from where he lay, curled and shaking. First things first, he had to get Newkirk off the freezing floor and back into bed.

"Easy now," he said as he knelt, making an effort to soften his voice through the anger still pulsing through his veins.

Either Newkirk wasn't aware enough to realize who Hogan was and the danger had past, or he still didn't trust the colonel, for he shrank back from the light touch on his shoulder, pulling himself even tighter.

"Hey, look at me. It's okay," Hogan tried again. He put a hand on Newkirk's cheek, drawing the man's eyes to him. It didn't help. The corporal was hurting, frightened, disoriented, and there was no sign of recognition as he turned away with a catch in his breath. The last thing Hogan wanted to do was to upset him even more so he withdrew his hand quickly and sat on his heels, trying to decide the best way to get Newkirk back to bed without spooking him further.

"Sir, how 'bout you let me try," said a voice at his shoulder.

Hogan turned and saw Kinch kneeling beside him, at the same time noticing LeBeau and several others hovering anxiously behind him. He'd been so single-minded he hadn't even thought of the other men. He blinked, then nodded in relief and shifted out of the way. Newkirk's friends would be better at handling this.

Initially Kinch made no move to touch the frightened man. Instead he said soothingly, "Hey buddy, it's me, Kinch. Shh…relax. No one's going to hurt you."

Newkirk's breathing was still shaky and rapid, but his eyes lost a bit of the wildness as they sought and then locked with his friend's.

"That's right, it's your old pal Kinch. Easy there," Kinch said gently.

"K..Kinch…."

"Yeah, it's okay. They're gone now." He reached out and gently touched Newkirk's arm.

"Kinch," gasped the shaking man as he grabbed Kinch's shirt.

Kinch gathered Newkirk up gently but quickly, the strong man lifting him seemingly without effort.

"It's all right, buddy. I've got you. You just hold on. I'm going to get you back to bed, okay?"

Keeping a tight hold on Kinch's shirt, Newkirk shrank into his friend as he was carried back to the bunk.

Hogan stood, ready to help where he could, but then whipped his head around when he heard a great commotion in the outer barracks.

"He's going to kill him!" Hogan heard someone shout.

Leaving Newkirk in Kinch's capable hands, Hogan rushed out, only to see Chapman pinning Hughes to the floor, punching him over and over.

Wells was trying to pull Chapman off, Turner was pulling on Wells, Jones was holding back a couple of other men, the rest of the men were pushing to see. It was utter chaos.

Hogan dove into the fray, doing what he could to keep Chapman from killing Hughes.

"Achtung!"

A large group of guards burst into the room, adding to the chaos. They began screaming warnings, shoving the prisoners apart, waving their rifles, screaming some more.

It took several minutes, but eventually the combatants were pulled apart and restrained by the guards. The noise level was just beginning to get back to normal when the Kommandant strode in to the room followed by a couple of junior officers.

"What is this?...Col Hogan, you are supposed to keep order in here."

Before Hogan could even start to explain, however, Klink spoke again. "No. Never mind. Actually I'm not interested. I am a busy man and don't have time for this. Sergeant Zimmerman, which of the men were involved?"

The German guard rattled off the names rapidly, pointing at each of the culprits in turn. Chapman. Turner. Wells. Jones. Lewis. Riley. Hogan. Hughes.

Klink looked at the bloody-faced officer slumping in one of the guard's hands. "Hughes? Are you sure? He looks more like the victim…"

He didn't even finish his question before the prisoners erupted in angry shouts, making Hughes' role in the mess very clear.

"Very well, very well," said Klink, holding up his hand. "All the men that Sgt Zimmerman named, except for Col Hogan, 30 days in the cooler. Beginning immediately." He started to turn away.

"Now wait a minute, Kommandant," said Hogan angrily. "I protest. Sergeants Turner and Jones were trying to stop the fight. They don't deserve…"

"Colonel Hogan, I don't care. Even if they didn't start it, they are just as guilty as far as I'm concerned. As non-commissioned officers, they are supposed to help keep discipline in this camp, not allow fights to start in the first place. That, of course, should be your role as well, and the only reason you're not joining them is because I am ordering you to gain control of your men before my visitors come next week. But I'm warning you, if there are any more problems, you will be sentenced to _sixty_ days in the cooler and the entire camp will be on half rations!"

He swept out of the room without further word, followed quickly by the guards who were roughly shoving the prisoners bound for the cooler out the door.

Hogan was left standing, seething, surrounded by the other men. It took all he had to keep from running after Klink and demanding to join the others in the cooler. A good leader wouldn't allow his men to be punished while he goes scot free. But somehow, Hogan managed to keep his head. No, he couldn't afford to be locked up. He couldn't help anyone from inside the cooler and, starting now, things were going to change. It was time for Hogan to take command.

oOoOoOoOo


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

After the Kommandant left, Hogan stared at the barracks door for a long moment, his thoughts churning. Part of him felt a stir of excitement over the idea of really putting his heart into taking charge, while another part was just so…so _mad_—about Klink's highhanded manner, about feeling powerless, about Hughes' treatment of Newkirk. Newkirk…

He rushed back to his room.

The scene inside his quarters didn't make him feel any better. Newkirk was on the bunk, but fighting against those trying to help him, doing his best to scoot to the wall while several sets of hands were attempting to settle him. Hogan was alarmed to see he was on his back—while any new injuries were most likely on his chest and legs, Hogan was also acutely aware that Newkirk's previous injuries hadn't healed and putting any pressure on them would be painful, especially the back of his knee. Couldn't the men see that they were hurting him?

Kinch appeared to be orchestrating things, so Hogan addressed him. "Kinch, I…" he started sharply, but then stopped.

Kinch was doing his best to use pillows to elevate Newkirk's right leg so the back of his knee wouldn't touch anything. From the grim, hard look on the GI's face, he'd clearly seen what had been done to Newkirk before. The problem wasn't that he was unaware of Newkirk's injuries, but that the Englishman wasn't cooperating.

Changing what he was going to say, Hogan continued, "I thought Newkirk recognized you."

Scowling in frustration, Kinch said, "Yes, sir. He did at first, but then he started fighting us. He needs to calm down."

Hogan looked around. "We need Wilson here. Did you let him know he needed to come by?"

Kinch, still busy trying to settle his friend, didn't look at Hogan as he answered, "Yes, sir. He said he was almost done eating and would be right over. I don't know what happened to him. Do you think the guards restricted everyone to barracks after the fight?"

Hogan frowned. Well, wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake. He turned to go find out what was keeping the medic when Wilson himself hurried in, out of breath.

"Sorry I was delayed, colonel. Private Thompson fell and sprained his wrist and I was..."

Taking in the group of men in Hogan's quarters, Mitchell on the floor unconscious, and the confusion of activity by the bunk, Wilson gaped.

"What happened? What's going on?"

Hogan answered grimly, succinctly, "Newkirk was beaten again. By our own side. Hughes and Mitchell."

Wilson glanced again at Mitchell, splayed out on the floor, then nodded with grim satisfaction. He ignored the unconscious man and instead headed to the bunk where several men were holding down his frantic patient.

"Come on guys, let me through."

"He's fighting us. He won't lie still," said Kinch, he and a couple of other men still trying to hold Newkirk down.

Physically tugging on Kinch, Wilson snapped, "Well of course he is...what do you want to bet _they_ pinned him down too."

It was almost comical how fast the men pulled back, stumbling over their own feet as it dawned on them what they'd been doing.

"I'm sorry," choked a tall private whose name Hogan couldn't remember at the moment.

Wilson shook his head absently, muttering, "Doesn't matter now. Just back off a minute."

He placed a hand on Newkirk's forehead, scowling at the heat, then clasped the sick man's face in both hands and spoke clearly and evenly, "Peter, look at me. You have to calm down. Come on. Calm down." Wilson turned his head. "Someone get me a wet cloth."

Wilson kept a hold on Newkirk's face and continued to talk to the agitated man until a cloth appeared in front of him. He grabbed it and began wiping the fevered man's face and neck, all while still calmly talking to him. After a couple of minutes, it appeared to work, for Newkirk slowly stopped struggling.

Giving his patient a gentle pat, Wilson said, "Good, that's better. Now I'm going to take a look at things, okay? You just lay still."

Keeping a reassuring hand on Newkirk's shoulder, he turned to the others and said quietly, "Can you give me the short version of what happened?"

Hogan knelt beside Wilson, but was careful not to crowd Newkirk, appalled at himself for not thinking about the injured man's reaction to being restrained. It was a stupid mistake on his own part—he needed to get his head in the game once and for all.

Keeping his voice low and calm, Hogan said, "I asked Kinch to find you earlier since Newkirk wasn't doing so well this morning. Before breakfast LeBeau couldn't even get him to drink some water. And that was before…" Hogan sighed deeply, the final vestiges of anger morphing into worry as the full impact of what happened took its place. "…that was before I walked in and found Mitchell and Hughes holding him down, using a belt on him."

The medic winced, but otherwise, he didn't react. Hogan frowned as he realized that Wilson didn't seem surprised that Newkirk had been attacked by one of their own officers. The colonel flicked his eyes over the rest of the men. Come to think of it, none of them seemed shocked by Hughes' actions. Furious, yes. Worried, yes. But none had been surprised. Why not? Had they known all along Hughes was capable of such a thing? Did that mean this wasn't the first time? He took another deep breath when he found himself getting angry all over again. Now wasn't the time for that.

Focusing again on Wilson, who was performing a quick assessment of Newkirk's condition, Hogan asked, "So doc, what do you think?"

Wilson shook his head, "Don't know yet." He glanced over his shoulder and addressed the rest of the hovering men. "How about giving us a little privacy, huh? Go on. You wouldn't want an audience if it was you."

When the men didn't move, Hogan added, "Doc's right. Clear out and give us some room. I'll let you know how he is as soon as I know."

After the men had reluctantly left, Hogan turned again to Wilson and Newkirk. Now that the others were gone, Wilson handed the cloth to Hogan with the admonishment to 'keep him calm' while he started a closer examination of the damage.

It wasn't as bad as either of the men had feared. Apparently Newkirk's nightshirt had provided some protection, for although his torso and legs were striped with a dozen or so angry new welts, the belt had only broken the skin on his shins. However, the injury on the back of his knee had also been aggravated, reminding Hogan of how Mitchell had been pressing down on Newkirk's legs, probably grinding the wound into the floor. It made him wish he could slug the man all over again.

No, the actual injuries weren't what worried the men as much as Newkirk's listless behavior during the exam. He seemed to have used up the last of his reserves in his struggles, for his eyes glazed and he barely reacted to anything the men were doing, even when they were sure it must be hurting him. Hogan didn't need medical training to know that wasn't a good sign.

Wilson took care of the injuries in his usual efficient manner and was soon done. He pulled the blankets up over his patient and sat back. The whole time he'd been working, the medic hadn't said one word. In Hogan's mind, that also wasn't a good sign.

"Well doc?" he asked, when Wilson still didn't speak.

Wilson turned to his commander, his face somber. He stood up and motioned with his head for Hogan to follow. Stopping on the other side of the room, he spoke quietly in a bleak tone. "You can see for yourself it's not good. Even without this, he was going downhill. It's not really the new injuries, but everything put together. Actually the new injuries aren't that bad, and if we were looking at a healthy person, yeah he'd be pretty sore, but he'd get over it fast enough. But Newkirk, well…he didn't need this. It's just one more shock to his system and to be honest….well sir, to be honest, I think it was one too many." He shook his head hopelessly. "Without medicines I don't see him pulling through. Between being malnourished, run down, beaten, his little dance with hypothermia, that infection taking hold, his worsening fever, and now the trauma of another beating…my experience says this was the nail in the coffin, if you'll excuse the expression."

Hogan had been expecting it. In fact, it's what he'd been thinking himself. But even so, the words hit him hard. He'd known the pain of losing men before. In war that was inevitable. But he'd been a command pilot and so far that had meant plane crashes, accidents, and losses during aerial combat; distant tragedies that were still like physical blows but never staring him in the face like this. Never watching a slow, agonizing decline brought on by not only the enemy, but by his own side. Never before had it felt so personal. It was ironic, since Hogan had despised Newkirk the first time they'd met and, if truth be told, there was a chance that he wouldn't like the mouthy Englishman even if he did recover. But Hogan had seen enough of Newkirk before he became truly sick to know there was potential. Whatever he was, whatever he'd done, there was something engaging about the man that Hogan had responded to and the thought of watching him slowly die was appalling.

"What…" the words caught in his throat and he had to start again. "What about the doctor from Stalag 4. He's supposed to be here tomorrow."

Wilson shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe if he has some penicillin…something to kill the infection. If he can order proper food for Newkirk. Some morphine to give him respite from the pain. Maybe. I dunno."

The medic's disheartened demeanor threatened to rub off on Hogan as well. Now that the colonel was finally waking up to his duty and responsibilities, it didn't seem fair that one of the first things to deal with was the death of one of his men.

No. There he went again, falling back into the trap of depressed thinking. Not again. He wasn't ready to give up yet. Reaching deep inside himself to find that natural well of optimism that he had foolishly buried when he'd been shot down, Hogan stood straight and clasped Wilson on the shoulder.

"I'll take a 'maybe' over a 'no chance' any day. That means Newkirk has a shot at getting better if the doctor comes through. We'll just have to do everything we can for him in the meantime, right?"

A small light was rekindled in Wilson's eyes as he took strength from his colonel. Pulling himself up, Wilson let out a long breath. "You're right, sir. As long as he's breathing he has a chance. We can keep doing like before—keep him calm, comfortable, warm, hydrated—we'll give him the best chance we can. He's already proven he's a fighter and that's half the battle. All we have to do is help him with the other half."

Hogan smiled, surprised to realize how good it felt. He made a note to do it more often.

"That's more like it. You tell me what you need and I'll do everything I can to get it."

Before Wilson could answer, a loud groan drew their attention. Mitchell, who'd lain unconscious this whole time, was finally coming around.

Hogan's smiled faded. He supposed it was time to deal with that bit of unpleasantness. He followed Wilson over to the prone man, standing over them while Wilson performed a quick exam.

"Well doc?"

Hogan's words were the same as when he was enquiring about Newkirk's health, but the tone implied a completely different level of concern.

"Has a swollen jaw and I expect a doozy of a headache, but he'll live." Wilson's tone was equally unsympathetic.

"He okay to move?"

"Yes sir."

"Then let's get him out of here."

The men each grabbed an arm and pulled Mitchell up, not roughly, but not with the same gentleness they might have shown another man. They walked him to the door and out into the barracks, where they were quickly surrounded and bombarded with questions.

"Out of the way, fellas. Let us get Mitchell settled."

The men grumbled and backed off, but the looks they gave Mitchell warned Hogan that here was a potential problem he needed to head off. As much as he'd enjoyed giving Mitchell what he deserved, he didn't want the men to start serving up their own brand of justice. There was no telling how far they'd go.

After he and Wilson helped Mitchell to his bunk, Hogan gathered the rest of the men and after giving them the rough details on Newkirk's condition, point-blank ordered them to leave Mitchell alone. There were more than just a few dark looks directed at him at that, but he wasn't about to let anarchy rule the camp. Singling out those who looked like they'd have the least potential for disobeying, Hogan put them in charge of Mitchell's safety. He then promised everyone that the man _would_ get what was coming to him in good time, but anything done to him in the meantime might create unwarranted sympathy for Mitchell from Klink or anyone else who may play a part in doling out punishment. Hogan didn't think everyone fully accepted it, but was sure that enough of the men did and they'd be able to ward off too much trouble.

oOoOoOoOo

Despite Wilson's best efforts, Newkirk continued to decline as the day progressed. The never-ending fever had firmly taken a hold of the sick man and nothing he did seemed to ease it. Eventually, Newkirk slipped into a state of confusion and delirium, no longer fully aware of anything or anyone.

His friends took turns sitting with him, keeping him as comfortable as possible and also spending what time they could with him. No one said it, but Hogan could see that more than just a couple were thinking that they might be saying their goodbyes before too long.

By late afternoon when Hogan entered his quarters, he himself was starting to doubt Newkirk would be holding on much longer.

"How's he doing?" he asked LeBeau, who was currently sitting with him.

LeBeau looked over. His eyes were dark with desolation. "He doesn't even know I'm here. Earlier he called out, said it was too dark. That he didn't want to be alone. I think he believes he's back in the cooler. He was…" LeBeau shook his head. "He _is_ very social…you know, the kind of man who likes to be around people. Locking him up in solitary for so long was cruel. I wish…" He visibly swallowed hard before turning back to Newkirk and taking his hand, "I wish Pierre knew he was with his friends."

Hogan put a hand on LeBeau's shoulder and squeezed gently once before letting go, desperately wishing there was more to do than just show his men that he was there for them.

He went over to his desk and sat down, staring blankly at the lists he'd been planning to review. He had always been a very hands-on commander, getting to know all of his men not only by name but also details about each of them. Hughes, for all his faults, had kept meticulous records of all the assigned prisoners and Hogan had thought to look over them. He couldn't concentrate, however, the small life-and-death struggle going on right in front of him distracting him.

Instead he sat back, hating the feeling of not being able to fix things. This was not his way. From the time he was a child, Hogan had had a knack for working through problems and finding solutions. Sometimes they were outside-the-box kind of solutions, but nonetheless they usually worked.

The gears started turning in his head as Hogan listened to LeBeau trying to soothe his feverish friend. Newkirk was growing restless again, mumbling and thrashing weakly. Hogan sighed. There _had_ to be a way to help if only he could think of something. Waiting another day for a doctor might be too late.

"Colonel?"

Hogan quickly joined LeBeau. He was dismayed to see that the Frenchman had tears in his eyes.

"Colonel, he's hurting. _Please_, can't you do anything?"

Now that he was closer, Hogan could see the deep lines of pain on Newkirk's face. Memories of being locked up alone wasn't the only thing tormenting the man. He would twist every few moments and moan breathlessly.

Hogan blew his breath out through clenched teeth. No wonder LeBeau was so upset.

"LeBeau…" Hogan didn't know what to say. There was so little he could do. "The doctor's coming tomorrow," he finally said resignedly. "In the meantime….in the meantime I'll get some more aspirin and we can grind it up and put it in some water. If you can get him to drink it, that should help some."

LeBeau nodded once, disappointment written all over his face. Hogan knew the Frenchman wasn't blaming him, but was hoping that as their leader Hogan could pull some rabbit out of his hat. It made him feel helpless all over again.

They'd used up the supply of aspirin they'd gathered earlier, so Hogan pulled on his jacket and turned to go search for some more. Going through the outer room without a word, he opened the door to the barracks, stumbling back when he nearly ran into several men about to come in. He blinked in surprise. It was a few guards, the Kommandant, and…and what looked to be a doctor.

oOoOoOoOo

"Colonel Hogan, I have good news for you. Doctor Klein was in the area for a New Years Eve party, so he is here today," said Klink smugly, as if he'd been the one to arrange the coincidence of the doctor's nearby party.

Hogan didn't care how smug Klink felt. He almost wanted to kiss the man in relief. The doctor was here!

"Kommandant, that's great. Newkirk really needs him now. Sir, if you'll follow me, he's in my quarters."

Turning to lead them, Hogan retraced his steps back to his room and opened the door.

LeBeau started in alarm when a whole gaggle of Germans flowed into the room, but when he saw a civilian with a doctor's bag, his whole face lit up.

"Colonel, you did it."

Hogan grinned, "I can't take credit for getting the doctor here…all I can say is that someone up above must be looking out for cranky Englishmen today. Step back a minute and let the doctor in."

Smiling, LeBeau patted Newkirk's hand one last time and said something in French before ceding his place to the doctor and standing beside Hogan.

The doctor frowned as he looked around the room quickly and back to his patient tucked into the lower bunk. He said several sentences rapidly to Klink, who blinked and then answered back.

"What did he say, Kommandant," asked Hogan, fretting that he wasn't able to understand anything.

"He…" Klink cleared his throat. "He said these conditions will be hard for him to work in and in a camp this size, we should have an infirmary."

Hogan needed Klink there to translate, so instead of commenting on the current wretched state of medical care in the camp and possibly irritating the Kommandant enough that he'd choose to leave, he said, "I'm sure you already had plans for one, sir. And I know my men would be happy to help build it if you need volunteers."

It was the right thing to say, for Klink lost that harried look and smiled. "Just so. Thank you for your offer, colonel. I'll consider it." He peered over the doctor's shoulder and his smile slipped away. "He really doesn't look very good."

In this instance, Hogan felt the best thing to do was not say anything at all. His view of Klink had changed since he learned that it had been Hughes instead of the German who had beaten Newkirk, but Hogan still put some of the blame for his condition on the Kommandant, who'd left the man in that horrid cell for months.

"Hmmm."

"Um hmmm."

"Hmmm."

Hogan listened to the doctor hmm-ing for several minutes until he felt like he'd burst. When the man appeared to be finished and sat back, Hogan could no longer wait.

"Sir? Can you ask him what he thinks?"

Klink apparently was wondering the same thing, as he nodded and quickly asked the doctor.

The older man shook his head and spoke for a bit, Hogan and LeBeau getting more nervous by the second. They didn't have to understand German to know it wasn't good news.

When the doctor finished, Klink turned to the two prisoners, looking troubled himself. "Colonel Hogan, I'm sorry. Doctor Klein says there's nothing he can do, but the infection is too deep and the Englander is too weak to survive amputation. He'll give him some morphine to ease his suffering, but he doesn't expect him to last more than another day or so. I _am_ sorry."

For a moment, Hogan didn't respond. He hadn't realized just how much he'd been pinning his hopes on the doctor. He thought he'd accepted that Newkirk might not make it, but in fact a part of him had been sure if they could keep him alive until the doctor arrived, things would be fine. He didn't know how he was going to tell the men.

"Isn't there anything else he can do? Is there a chance he'd be strong enough for them to take his leg?" he asked quietly. He hadn't even thought about the possibility of amputation and was horrified to think of what it would do to the man's future, but that was better than no future at all.

Klink turned again to the doctor and spoke again, listening carefully to the response. Hogan knew the answer before he turned back around.

"No. He doesn't have the strength to survive the operation. The doctor said maybe your man could have survived if we had some way to kill the infection. Penicillin is the answer, but he has no way to get any. It's terribly hard to come by. He will give him some morphine now and leave some extra. He says…"

When Klink didn't finish, Hogan prompted, "What?"

"Doctor Klein says that a large enough dose would end his suffering and it would be the kindest thing to do. He will leave enough if that's what you decide."

Hogan put a quick hand on LeBeau's arm, expecting some kind of outburst from the feisty Frenchman. He needn't have bothered, however, for LeBeau seemed to retreat within himself and didn't move.

They stood together silently while the doctor administered a shot of morphine, Hogan glad at least that Newkirk wouldn't be suffering for now. No one spoke while the doctor finished up and packed his bag. There was nothing else to say.

Hogan left LeBeau in with the now peacefully sleeping Newkirk and escorted the Germans back out of the barracks. He closed the door behind them and then stood there for a moment, staring at the door, not wanting to face the men and tell them the bad news.

Finally, he turned to them.

"It's not good, fellas," he said, telling it to them straight. "The doctor says there's nothing he can do."

Hogan was proud of how the men took it. He knew how much Newkirk had meant to them, but they handled it like soldiers. Some of them nodded sadly, hearing what they already had suspected. Some of them stood stoically and took the news with grim stillness. Even the ones who clearly had thought Newkirk would get better only momentarily allowed naked grief to show on their faces before they got themselves back under control. Once again, these "troublemakers," these "bottom of the barrel" men surprised Hogan with their strength of character. Hughes was an idiot. And Hogan knew he himself was an idiot for not seeing what had been in front of him all along.

"Corporal Newkirk is asleep right now. The doctor gave him some morphine so at least he's not feeling anything anymore. He gave him about another day or so, so if you want to say your goodbyes, I suggest you find some time soon. That's all men."

Hogan went back into his quarters so the men could speak amongst themselves. It was at times like this that he regretted not being 'one of the guys.' He knew once the 'officer' was gone the enlisted men would have more to say to each other, but there was no one for him to share with. Certainly not Hughes, he thought with a grim recognition. If he had his way, the British officer would never again have any kind of standing here.

"Colonel?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think you could watch mon ami for a little while? He's sleeping peacefully for now."

Hogan nodded. Of course. He should have realized that LeBeau would want to talk with some of the others right now as well.

Alone for once, he didn't count the dying man asleep in the bunk across the room, Hogan found himself getting angry. This wasn't fair. The medicine existed that could save his man. What if he….a tiny seed was planted in his thoughts. What if he didn't have to rely on the Germans for it? What if he could find a way to get some himself?

He started pacing back and forth. He always did to his best thinking when he was on his feet and moving.

There must be _some_thing he could do.

He stopped cold. What was he thinking? Of course. Tomorrow was New Years Day, but more importantly, it was Friday. That meant the dog handler, Schnitzer, would be back. He'd been focusing on that for so long when he was planning his escape, but he hadn't even thought of it in days. Yes. If he could get word to Schnitzer that he needed penicillin, and if Schnitzer could get it from the Underground, and if they could get him back into camp….

Hogan started pacing again, running various scenarios through his head, rejecting ideas and coming up with new ones, basing each plan on his ability to pull it off in just a day. For he wasn't fooling himself. If he did this, it would have to be tomorrow or it wouldn't make any difference. Newkirk would be dead.

oOoOoOoOo

The rest of the day Hogan was curiously quiet. If any of the men had really known him, they would have realized that he was plotting something. Instead, they were too concerned with their friend's fate to pay any attention to the scheming colonel as they came and went from his quarters, quietly sitting with their dying comrade.

By lights out, Hogan had come up with his plan. He knew it had little chance of success and furthermore was dangerous. There were so many things that would have to go just right for it to work, but it was the only chance Newkirk had. His biggest concern was that he couldn't do it alone. If he did this, he'd have to get help from the men and he wasn't sure he had the right to ask them. It was for their friend, and they wouldn't say no. He knew now they were the kind of men who would take even foolish risks for each other and so he had to be the voice of reason. He would have to call things off if it became too risky. Would it be fair to give them hope just to yank it away? And he knew the chance of having to cancel it was great. Could he do that? And selfishly, he also knew that if he went down this path, there would be no turning back. He'd in effect be accepting London's assignment and would be committed to staying. Was he ready to give up all plans of escape?

After turning out the lights, Hogan climbed onto his bunk and pulled the covers over him, exhausted after all the events of the day but too wound up to fall asleep immediately. It was a heck of a way to end the year, he decided—finding out about Hughes' brutality and the subsequent fight, dealing with his men's understandable distress, the doctor's unexpected arrival and depressing prognosis, and of course the overarching struggle to save the life of one of his men.

He eventually drifted off into a light sleep, but an unknown amount of time later, Hogan became aware of increased movement from the bunk below him. After laying mostly silent, Newkirk was once more tossing about, making small sounds of distress.

Hogan eased himself off his bunk and settled in the chair by his temporary roommate, hoping he could do something to settle the man. There was no light in the room, but by touch he found the bowl of water with the cloth in it and wrung it out before using it to cool Newkirk's face and neck, like he'd watched others do dozens of times already that day.

He sat there for awhile, murmuring soothing, meaningless nothings while he tried to quiet Newkirk down. His tired mind drifted from one thought to another, not really focusing on anything important as his ministrations became automatic.

"No…please…."

Hogan was brought back to the present when he realized he could understand some of the words Newkirk was mumbling. He reached down and gently took Newkirk's hand. He knew it was ridiculous, but it felt strange. Holding a man's hand like that was a gesture he'd expect of friends or comrades, but it felt too intimate for someone who was still virtually a stranger to him. Patting the hand awkwardly, he said, "Uh, it's okay. You're okay."

Listening for several minutes to the Englishman's broken thoughts, Hogan pieced together what was bothering him. Thankfully the morphine appeared to still be dulling the pain, but Newkirk's fever-wrapped mind had once more locked him in the cooler—in solitary away from everyone. He was pleading, begging to be released. Hogan didn't have to have a long acquaintance with Newkirk to know this was well out of character for the confident, cocky Englishman. It hurt him to see how far he was gone.

He sighed noiselessly and gently squeezed the hand in his own, hoping by some miracle the man would sense he was no longer alone.

Hogan didn't know if it was his presence or simple exhaustion that eventually quieted Newkirk, but he didn't want to take a chance so sat up with him for awhile, talking to him and taking his hand when it looked like he was starting to stir.

He didn't realize how long he'd been sitting there until he noticed the pale light of morning seep through the cracks in the shutters. He'd been up all night.

Feeling stupid with fatigue, Hogan rolled his shoulders to loosen stiff muscles and yawned deeply. It was New Years Day. He looked at the nearly lifeless hand he still held in his own. New years was supposed to be for new beginnings, not this.

oOoOoOoOo


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Hogan sat quietly for a few minutes, then tucked Newkirk's hand under the blankets. He stood up and stretched before moving to the window and opening the shutters, peering up at the sky. It was still early, not quite dawn. That meant it was about half an hour before roll call—not time for anyone else to be up, but not enough time to catch some shuteye himself.

He grimaced. It was going to be a very long, very busy, very stressful day. Following through with his plans while sleep-deprived wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, but he'd have to push through and make it happen somehow. He paused, surprised that he wasn't thinking anymore about _if_ he should do it, but _how_. Sometime during the night, without even realizing it, he'd made his decision. No more hesitating and second-guessing—he was going to do this. He was actually committing to staying here and setting up operations from within Stalag 13, with his first mission to get one of his men the help he needed.

Hogan glanced over to the bunk where the early light revealed his sick and injured soldier bundled under the blankets. He shook his head at himself. He'd been fooling himself if he'd thought there'd really been a choice. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he'd let one of his men die when he could have done something about it. Whether or not he pulled the other men into it, he had to try.

Walking over to his water pitcher and basin, he splashed some water on his face, sucking in his breath as the icy cold water did wonders to clear the fog in his head. He quickly shaved and was just drying off his face when he heard a quiet knock.

Glancing over to confirm that the noise hadn't woken Newkirk, he moved softly to the door and opened it, raising a finger to his lips in warning.

LeBeau and...and...darn it, that same tall private whose name Hogan couldn't remember, were peering in expectantly.

"We heard you were awake. Could we see Newkirk?" whispered LeBeau.

Keeping his voice equally soft, Hogan said. "Sure, come on in, but don't wake him. He had a restless night."

Hogan wasn't surprised when more than just the two men entered. At least a half dozen men had been standing behind the others and joined them as they tiptoed carefully over to Newkirk. They said nothing as they looked at their companion, but their expressions spoke for them. Upset. Sad. Resigned. Hogan wondered how long they'd been up, not sure if Newkirk had even made it through the night.

Right then, Hogan made another decision. These men had been looking out for one another, many for a very long time. It would be grossly unfair to not give them a chance to help their friend. Honestly, he needed them for the plan to succeed, but more importantly, if it was his friend dying, he couldn't imagine not being part of a plan to help. He nodded to himself as he continued to watch the men. Yeah, he'd give them their chance.

He finally shooed them out when Newkirk started to stir, either as a result of the light touches that some of them apparently couldn't resist or the soft well-wishes that the men murmured to him. Hogan knew they were starting to say their goodbyes like he'd suggested yesterday, but soon enough they'd find out they might not be necessary. Whispering for them to get dressed for roll call, he closed the door behind them and quickly finished getting ready himself.

oOoOoOoOo

Now that Hogan had made his decision, he found himself eager to get the ball rolling. Roll call was interminable, made even worse by the Kommandant's by now predictable rant about the superiority of the German race, inevitable conclusion of the war, etc, etc. Hogan tuned it all out while he used the time to carefully study the positioning of all the guards. He tweaked his plans based on what he knew of each guard's strengths and weaknesses and then impatiently waited for Klink to finish.

Moments after they were dismissed, Hogan saw Wilson jogging over.

"Sir, I wanted to check on Newkirk before breakfast. How's he doing this morning?"

"Still holding his own. Rough night, but he was sleeping when we came out for roll call. If you don't mind sitting with him while I get breakfast, you can see for yourself and I'll have one of the men bring you back something to eat."

Wilson nodded thankfully and hurried off, Hogan's gaze following him into the barracks before heading for breakfast himself. He'd been planning on staying behind with Newkirk while the men ate, but had to admit it would be good to clear his head for a little while.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, reminding Hogan of the atmosphere before Christmas, hushed and tense. He was keenly aware of differences, though. Before it had felt heavy and oppressed, and although there was now a somber sense of waiting for something bad to happen, it no longer had that angry, bitter edge to it. Hogan knew a good part of the credit belonged to the young man fighting for his life back in the barracks, and he wished he could share his idea to help Newkirk. There was too great a chance that the guards could overhear, though, and also there were some of his own men that Hogan simply didn't trust. Mitchell for instance, who sat at the next table within earshot.

Hogan glanced over at Mitchell as he ate. The sergeant had wisely been keeping a low profile since yesterday when Hogan had escorted him to the rec hall to have a private "conversation." He hadn't bothered to contain his anger as he kept Mitchell at attention for almost an hour while he thoroughly chewed him out and detailed the consequences of engaging in anything even resembling his behavior with Newkirk again. He'd also confined Mitchell to barracks except for roll calls or meals until further notice, assigned him to every lousy work detail for the next two months, took away all privileges for the same amount of time, and made him responsible for all the unpleasant manual tasks involved in caring for a bedridden man—washing soiled bedding, cleaning out chamber pots, heating water…basically anything Newkirk needed without actual contact with the invalid.

It irked Hogan that he couldn't punish Mitchell more appropriately—at home the man would have been brought up on charges, but here Hogan's options were limited. Yes, he could go to the Kommandant and ask to have Mitchell thrown in the cooler along with the others, but he chose not to. For one thing, the Kommandant hadn't listened to him earlier when he'd tried to keep Turner and Jones out of the cooler, and if Klink turned him down and Mitchell found out, that would only cause further discipline problems. Second, he simply didn't like the idea of sharing internal problems with the enemy and would rather take care of Mitchell himself. And finally, most importantly, he wanted Mitchell where he could keep a close eye on him.

Having little appetite, Hogan didn't linger over breakfast, but he ate as much as he could, knowing he'd need the energy later. He then hurried back to his barracks, bringing Wilson's breakfast himself.

Entering his quarters, he said quietly, "Here you go Wilson, I brought…" but paused when he saw a German guard in the chair next to Newkirk. What did he want? Sergeant Zimmerman had already stopped by earlier to make sure the sick prisoner hadn't escaped and now Sergeant Schultz was bothering them—couldn't they leave Newkirk alone?

Annoyed that even a dying man wasn't allowed any peace, he said sarcastically, "Afraid he's going to escape? I don't think he's going anywhere."

Schultz actually looked hurt when he turned from Newkirk to face Hogan.

"I just came to see how the Englander was doing," he defended himself. His face reflected only sadness and concern as he added, "He looks terrible."

Hogan took a moment to check his attitude, realizing that his fatigue was making him irritable. He recalled Schultz stopping by before to check on "one of his boys" and knew the man was genuine in his concern for Newkirk. It was to his credit that Schultz saw the prisoners not just as the enemy, but also cared about them as individuals. It wasn't something Hogan would forget again. In fact…yes…in fact, he was going to see what he could do to have Schultz become their barracks guard. He'd certainly be a lot easier to deal with than Zimmerman. He wouldn't call Zimmerman abusive, but the German guard had made it clear that he wouldn't shed a tear if any or all the prisoners found themselves on the wrong end of a machine gun. For Hogan to run an effective sabotage and escape unit, the pleasant Sergeant Schultz would be a much better fit.

Placing a hand on Schultz's shoulder—the first time he'd ever voluntarily touched one of the enemy, he realized—he agreed somberly, "He's certainly had a rough few days. We haven't given up on him, though. We're taking as good care of him as we can."

Schultz glanced down at Newkirk and then faced the American colonel again. "You will let me know if I can help? I would not want to get in trouble, but if you tell me quietly, maybe I can get some better food for him, ya?"

Flashing a subdued, but genuine smile, Hogan said, "I really appreciate that, Sergeant, and I know Newkirk would too. Right now he isn't eating much of anything, but I'll let you know when he gets his appetite back."

Schultz nodded, reached down and patted Newkirk on the shoulder, then picked up his rifle and left.

Hogan blinked. He hadn't even noticed that Schultz had put down his rifle. For a second he wondered if he should have taken the opportunity to steal it. Then he shook his head. It's not like he could have used it to escape—there were too many guards between the barracks and the fence. But still, Schultz's trust made him even more certain that he needed to get the kindly, if somewhat absent-minded, man to be their main barracks guard. He'd have to think of how to get rid of Zimmerman.

By now, most of the men had returned from breakfast and a few had quietly come in to inquire after Newkirk again. He let Wilson answer their questions, then pulled the medic over to the side.

"Wilson," he said very quietly, "I need you to take Mitchell over to your barracks and check him out."

"He's all right, sir," Wilson protested in surprise. "I checked him out yesterday. Just bumps and bruises. I'd rather stay here in case Newkirk needs anything if that's all right."

Hogan shook his head. "I have an idea of how to get Newkirk that penicillin he needs, but I don't trust Mitchell with the details. I need an excuse to get him out of the way for a short while. I've confined him to barracks, but I can "agree" to let you check him out. Think you can handle that? Keep him out of my hair for about 30 minutes or so?"

Wilson nodded. "Sure, sir. If you really could get that penicillin…well that might make all the difference for Newkirk. Don't you worry about Mitchell, sir, I can say I just need to follow up to make sure he doesn't have a concussion or anything and it's too busy here. If you want, I'll suggest it in front of you, then you can agree to let him out for a short while."

"Good. Let's do it in about 10 minutes. I want to make sure everyone's back from breakfast first."

At the appointed time, Hogan made sure he was out in the main barracks when Wilson came out and said he needed to check Mitchell over again and suggested he take the sergeant over to his barracks. Hogan hoped he adequately portrayed a sense of annoyance and then reluctant agreement, while inside he breathed a sigh of relief when Wilson and Mitchell finally left.

Hogan poked his head out of the door to make sure there weren't any guards nearby and then asked the men to gather around.

When he had their attention, he began. "Men, I know you've all been worried about Corporal Newkirk and like we talked about yesterday, he isn't doing so well."

The men's faces grew grim, probably assuming Hogan was about to tell them that their friend would be dead soon.

He quickly went on, "The German doc said his best chance would be penicillin, but they didn't have any. So…" He paused, looking at each man in turn, trying to convey just how serious he was. "So…I want to try to get some myself. It would mean leaving the camp, making contact with the Underground, and then getting back in, all without getting caught. I've got a plan, and although it's risky, I'm going to try. I'd need some help, though, creating disturbances, covering for me. It could be dangerous so it's strictly voluntary, with no repercussions if you don't want to be involved. I want you all to think about it and let me know. I'll be in my office so you can talk things over, but don't take too long. I don't have to tell you we'll need to do this today if it's going to help Newkirk."

Hogan didn't even get a chance to turn around to go to his office before the room erupted in noise. To a man, they were all volunteering, not needing to consider it for even a minute. Their voices clamored over one another as they all eagerly asked what they could do.

Hogan couldn't help himself. He'd been planning on staying the cool, in-charge commander, but instead he grinned, proud of the men.

"Thanks men. I appreciate this, and I know Newkirk will too. There's jobs for all of you, but I'll need a few men for special tasks. Ones that are a bit more dangerous and..."

Before Hogan could finish, LeBeau jumped in, "I'll do it, colonel. Whatever you need."

Hogan raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "You might want to hear what I've got in mind first."

LeBeau just shook his head. "No. Whatever it is, I will risk it. I know Pierre would for me."

Hogan smiled at LeBeau, seeing determination in the Frenchman's face. "All right."

"Count me in too, sir."

Hogan turned to Kinch and nodded, somehow not surprised. Although quiet, Kinch had a resolve about him that made Hogan happy to have him as a key player. Someday, though, he'd really like to know how the quiet American and the brash Englishman had become friends.

"LeBeau and Kinch…that's two. I think one more would do for what I have in mind, which would involve..."

"Uh, me, sir. Well, I mean, if there's anything I can do. I don't know if I'll be any good, but…uhm…I'd like to help if you can use me."

This time Hogan was surprised. It was Carter, red-faced and stammering, but volunteering nonetheless.

"Carter? I thought you didn't know Newkirk."

Carter shrugged bashfully. "Well, I haven't known him for very long, but he seems pretty nice. And…and besides, my grandpa always said you can tell everything you need to know about man from his friends, and Newkirk's got a lot of good ones so I figure he must be a pretty good guy, and I'd like to help….I mean, if I wouldn't mess things up."

It took Hogan just a moment to respond, kicking himself all over again for not seeing the quality of the men around him for so long.

"Your grandfather's a smart man, Carter. Thanks. I could definitely use you."

Turning to the group at large, he said, "Okay then, Carter, Kinch, and LeBeau will form the core team and while the rest of you work on creating diversions and cover. Here's what we'll do….."

Quickly outlining his plan, Hogan watched the men carefully, seeing their expressions turn from incredulous, to considering, to amused, to determined. He grinned. This might actually work.

oOoOoOoOo


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 

After Hogan dismissed the larger group, he sat down at the table and motioned to his three volunteers.

"Carter, Kinch, LeBeau, take a seat."

He studied them carefully as they joined him. The very fact that they'd volunteered to take on potentially dangerous tasks without hesitation assured him that these were the right men for the job, but he was also aware that each of them brought different strengths and weaknesses to the mix. He didn't have much time to determine what those were and choose which one he should assign to which task.

"All right fellas, you've heard what I have in mind…it's fairly straightforward. I sneak out of camp with the dog handler, Schnitzer, who's part of the local Underground. I'm counting on the Underground to get their hands on some penicillin, which I sneak back into camp. It's your job to create the right kind of diversions to get me in and out without the Krauts finding out."

The three nodded. Hogan had already explained that to the group.

He continued, "Schnitzer is due here in about an hour if he sticks to his usual schedule—everything hinges on him coming, so we can only hope he doesn't cancel because it's New Year's Day. Assuming he arrives like always, I have to get close enough to him to tell him my plan. This is where I need one of you. Someone will have to provoke the dogs to give me an excuse to run over and "help." Otherwise I won't have a good reason to be near Schnitzer for any length of time. That's when I'll explain to him what I need. The next task will be to create a second diversion, drawing the guards' attention while I get into his truck. We have to be careful here—we don't want them calling the Kommandant. If the distraction draws his attention, he'll want me to answer to him and with any luck by that time I'll be on my way out. So what are your thoughts on how we do this? You three have been here longer than me, so I'd like to hear what you think."

Hogan was pleased to see the three men sit up straighter and visibly start thinking. Excellent. He had an idea of his own, but he wanted to see what these men could come up with. Honestly, for today's mission and any future espionage work, men who simply obeyed commands would be of limited use to him—he needed men who could improvise, take risks, think outside the box.

The three started throwing around ideas.

"How about a sports injury? I could pretend to twist my ankle and fall down…it could work if I yelled loud enough."

"Why would we be playing any sport in this weather?"

"Oh. Right. Uhh…"

"We could have a big group start running over to Barracks 8. The guards would want to make sure we weren't making trouble. And when they ask, we can just say we were running a footrace."

"And if they start shooting because they think we're escaping?"

"Hmmm. Illness?"

"Wouldn't attract enough of them."

"A magic show?"

"Outside?"

"Too bad we don't have any pretty girls around."

"If we had pretty girls around, I wouldn't be sharing them with the guards."

"I haven't talked to a pretty girl in years. But if I did, I would never let the boche near her."

"I'd just like to see one again."

"All you want to do is look at one, Carter?"

"Well, I have a girl back home, MaryAnn, and she wouldn't like it if I did anything else."

"You aren't the only one with a girl back home. My girl..."

"Hey! Focus!"

Three heads snapped up.

"Sorry, colonel," said Kinch sheepishly while LeBeau muttered something in French and Carter ducked his head and murmured his own apology.

Hogan rubbed his forehead. Maybe now was not the time to test their planning abilities.

"It's all right..never mind. You were on the right track—well, before you got lost thinking about girls—but we don't have time to get derailed right now. I like the idea of a sports injury—it's similar to an idea I had myself. Since it would be unusual for us to be outside when it's so cold, we can say it's a New Year's tradition to play football. They're not used to American prisoners yet, so they should buy that. It'll be a good excuse for us to be outside when Schnitzer arrives anyway. We'll get enough men for two teams and the rest will be spectators. With a big enough crowd we can hope they won't miss me. Once I'm near the dogs, one of you takes a spectacular fall—you'll have to ham it up pretty good to draw the guards."

Kinch said thoughtfully, "So that would get you out of camp, but what kind of distraction can we use when you come back? You'll have to be gone for awhile. We can't be playing football the whole time. And how are you going to get around missing noon roll call?"

"Good questions. The football game will be over once the 'injury' occurs, and everyone goes back inside barracks. It's less likely for the guards to notice I'm not here if everyone's out of sight. As far as missing roll call, I'll try to be back before then. We'll have just over 2 hours, and I'm hoping that's enough. If I'm not...well, I'll come up with something before I leave. To get me back in, you'll have to slip something to one of the dogs to make him ill, or maybe just act crazy...we'll have to see what Schnitzer recommends to get them to call him back. Then watch for his truck and the moment it's spotted, you start a very loud fight—two of you can do that, or one of you with another volunteer. You'll have to make it real enough that the guards hear it and you'll also have to make sure it spills outside. This time it's okay to attract the Kommandant's attention. By the time the guards fetch him, I'll be out of the truck and back with you. I'm sorry, but most likely it will mean the cooler for the two fighters. I'll do my best to keep you out, but I expect you'll get at least a few days."

Hogan noted the reactions of the men. Both Carter and LeBeau simply shrugged, apparently not troubled with the idea of a short stay in the cooler. Hogan wondered briefly if they knew how appalling the conditions were, before dismissing the thought as irrelevant—they'd volunteered to help knowing it might be unpleasant. At any rate, Kinch's reaction was more interesting. There was a gleam in his eyes—he was looking almost happy at the idea of going to the cooler.

"Kinch?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I may be crazy, but you look like you _want_ to be sent to the cooler."

A hard look appeared and Kinch said flatly, "Newkirk is my friend. A very good friend. And they hurt him when he was too sick to fight back. _I_ am not sick."

Hogan inhaled. There was no mistaking Kinch's implication. He was hoping to be locked up with the men who'd hurt his friend so he could apply some justice of his own. While Hogan sympathized with him and remembered decking Mitchell with great satisfaction, the last thing they needed was more trouble.

"I hear what you're saying," he said carefully. "But if you do end up in the cooler, I need your word you won't attack Hughes or Wells. If nothing else, I'd think you'd want any stay in the cooler to be short so you could help with Newkirk when you get out. Even if we get the penicillin, it's going to take awhile before he's well again."

Kinch's expression was closed off as Hogan spoke, but finally he nodded in reluctant agreement. "You're right, colonel. It'd be worth it to me, but Newkirk would be angry if I got into trouble because of him and he doesn't need to be upset right now. I promise I won't do anything if I am put with those...those _men_."

Satisfied, Hogan turned to the other two. "That goes for you, too, if you end up in the cooler. No cowboy justice. I'll make sure these men are taken care of, but it will be the right way, understood?"

After receiving nods all around, he continued, "Okay. Now all that's left is deciding who does what job. Kinch, I think you'd be best to handle the dogs. Carter, you'll be the football injury, and LeBeau, you start the fight. Everything clear?"

Hogan had thought everything was good, but then he heard "wait."

"What's the problem, LeBeau?"

"I understand your plan, colonel, but I think I should work with the dogs."

Hogan paused, mildly annoyed. He wasn't used to explaining his decisions during mission briefs and hadn't expected any push back. Besides, the dog detail had the most risk and while he didn't question LeBeau's bravery, quite frankly the Frenchman was small and the dogs were bred to be large and powerful. A man like Kinch, easily the strongest of the three, would be better off if things got rough.

"No offense, LeBeau, but I think this job would be better for Kinch. Those dogs look like they'd enjoy eating someone for breakfast."

Hogan almost winced when the Frenchman's face clouded with indignation and he rose to his not-very-considerable height, spewing out a rapid, clearly angry stream of French.

The colonel cut off the gesturing and ranting with a raised hand, "All right. All right. Hold on. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not trying to insult you, just speaking plainly. We don't have time to let emotions and ruffled pride get in the way of common sense. Those are big dogs, and a larger man would stand a better chance of handling things if they decided to attack. I don't have to tell you the stakes, do I, if this mission fails because we put the wrong man on a job?"

LeBeau's eyes flitted over to the door to Hogan's quarters and he deflated.

"I'm sorry colonel. I will do whatever you want me to do. But…but please…my family has always had large dogs, and I know how to talk to them. I really am good with them."

Hogan was kicking himself once more for not getting to know the men's strengths better before now—maybe the corporal was right and he would be better for the job.

"You have to be sure. I mean it…if this thing went south because you couldn't handle the dogs, the mission would end before it even started."

It wasn't pride talking when LeBeau nodded solemnly and said simply, "I'm sure, colonel. I grew up around big dogs and know how to control them."

Hogan nodded slowly. "Okay. Done. You've got the dog detail."

"Merci." The corner of LeBeau's mouth quirked up. He was obviously aware that it was insane to basically beg to be allowed to provoke a group of attack dogs, but was pleased to be given the dangerous task.

Hogan nodded once back and then hid a smirk when he saw a look of relief flit over Kinch's face. He hadn't realized the man had been worried about working with the dogs himself. To be honest, the thought of it scared him as well, so he didn't blame Kinch for his reluctance.

"Right, that leaves Carter and Kinch in charge of the distractions. Carter the football injury and Kinch the fight. Are we good now?"

When none of the three had further issues, Hogan dismissed them and took a moment to sit quietly, mentally preparing himself for the day's activities.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Ten minutes later, Wilson arrived back in the barracks followed by Mitchell.

Hogan grimaced. He had no hope that Mitchell would play along today. When the man figured out what they were doing, Mitchell would find a way to blow the whole plan sky high. He thought for a minute, then went to find Wilson in his room where the medic was looking over his patient.

Before sharing his latest plan, Hogan asked hopefully, "How's he doing, doc? Any better?"

Wilson put fresh cool cloth on Newkirk's forehead before turning around. From the look on his face, Hogan didn't have to hear the words.

"He's burning up—barely holding on. I'm not sure why he's still alive, to tell you the truth." Wilson shrugged helplessly. "At least the morphine's helping with the pain."

Hogan walked over to the bunk and looked down at the unconscious man who was unknowingly at the center of today's events. He wondered what Newkirk would think if he knew their plans. Who really was this man that they were going to risk themselves for? Was he truly as self-centered and loathsome as Hughes believed? Was he the dark soul from the cooler who had callously led other men into trouble and then abandoned them? Or was he perhaps the bright spark who had helped Hogan finally see the prisoners as men he could respect? Was he really worth risking their lives? Hogan wouldn't kid himself. No matter what he told the men, he knew there were many things that could go wrong and today's mission brought real danger. He could be caught escaping. Someone could panic. He could be delayed and miss roll call. The guards could get trigger happy. Men could be thrown in the cooler and made to suffer as Newkirk had. Someone might betray them. There were just _so _many ways things could go wrong...they'd need plenty of luck to pull this off. And even if everything went their way, the hard truth was that, regardless, Newkirk would most likely die.

He forcibly pulled his gaze away. It didn't matter. He had already decided to try and the other men were willing to take risks to save one of their own. If they were unsuccessful and Newkirk did die, they could take some comfort in the fact that at least the men had been reminded they could fight for one another.

"Mitchell needs to be taken care of," Hogan said, abruptly breaking the silence.

"What's that, sir?" asked Wilson, alarmed. "Uhm...p-permanently?"

Hogan laughed, pretending Wilson had made a joke. He didn't blame the medic for misunderstanding—he'd phrased it badly—but he didn't want Wilson to think he would even consider taking out one of his own men. "Very funny," he said grinning. "I mean for the next few hours, of course. I have a plan to get myself out of camp with Schnitzer, and we can't have Mitchell raising any kind of alarm."

Visibly relieved, Wilson said, "What do you have in mind? You need my help?"

"Yeah. I need you to give him something that will knock him out for a few hours. We'll put him in my bunk, cover him up and put my hat on him. That way if a guard finds that I'm missing, you can tell him that I was up all night with Newkirk and decided to catch up on sleep—with any luck we can pass off Mitchell as me. Killing two birds with one stone as it were. He doesn't betray us, and we have ourselves a decoy."

Wilson looked pleased. "That's gonna be easy. Mitchell still has a headache and I promised I'd get him something for it after I looked in on Newkirk. He's already expecting me to give him something, so it won't be a problem. The only trick will be getting him up onto your bunk once he's passed out."

"We have plenty of guys who can take care of that. You just slip him your little magic pill in the next couple of minutes. Schnitzer should be here shortly and we need to get outside and start things rolling."

Hogan paced about the room as Wilson scurried out to take care of Mitchell. He looked at his bunk and grimaced, for what he'd told Wilson was, of course, the truth. He _had_ been up all night with Newkirk and he just hoped that the adrenaline high he was riding would last as long as he needed it. For the moment he wasn't feeling tired, but he knew that it could hit him when he least expected it, when he could least afford it.

Only moments passed before Wilson returned and informed Hogan that it was done—Mitchell should be out like a light in no time.

oOoOoOoOo

From that point on, the plan started unfolding rapidly. Mitchell was quickly, if rather ungently, carried into Hogan's room and placed on his bunk. After rolling him towards the wall and covering him, Hogan's hat completed the ruse and, for all intents and purposes, it looked like Hogan himself was taking a nap. While several men were taking care of that, the rest of the men from Barracks 2 enlisted the prisoners in the neighboring barracks and formed two teams and a whole group of spectators. Even though it was a cover, the men clearly were having a good time getting themselves organized as the Americans amongst them tried to teach the Europeans the rules to 'real' football. Many good-natured insults later, the men were playing a fair approximation of the game, despite having to use a volleyball, when Schnitzer's truck rolled up to the gates and passed through.

LeBeau, who had been leaning against the barracks closest to the dog pens, sauntered over to the truck casually. When Schnitzer brought out the first dogs, LeBeau bumped into one and then flung himself against the cages, screaming in a shrill voice that the dog was attacking. Hogan, even though he'd been expecting LeBeau's theatrics, was impressed. If he'd not known better, he'd have sworn that the Frenchman was about to be mauled by the dog barking at him.

Making sure Kinch and Carter kept the game going, Hogan had several men follow him to the truck. It was chaos as Schnitzer tried to keep the dogs under control while LeBeau kept inciting them with his shrieking, all the while somehow keeping them from attacking him. Hogan would have to find out later how he managed that.

Hogan got close enough to the German to quietly but rapidly explain his plan. Needless to say, Schnizter was shocked to be suddenly thrust into an operation without any preparation, but apparently he'd had enough experience either in espionage or just in life that he rallied quickly and agreed to Hogan's plan, and quickly gave LeBeau a harmless recipe that would cause the dogs to foam at the mouth and bark like mad. It was at that point that Hogan heard Carter's agonized cry. He smothered a smile. Seems like Carter had some acting talent too.

LeBeau and Hogan's group of men headed towards the scream, passing by the back of the truck in a seemingly uncoordinated gaggle. But they were one short as they reached the action—Hogan had managed to slip into the floor of the truck and was now huddled in the back corner.

Heart pounding, he waited in tense fear as Schnitzer finished herding the dogs into the pen and taking the old ones. The German gave the dogs a harsh command as they bounded into the truck—Hogan hoped he was telling them not to snack on their guest.

He crouched amongst the dogs as the engine started up and they began to move. He kept waiting for the truck to screech to a halt and the shooting to start, but instead it bumped along slowly, Hogan bouncing and falling against the dogs a few times. Fortunately, they didn't seem bothered by him and didn't react. It was several minutes later when it dawned on him that it had been long enough—they had to be out of the camp by now.

Blowing out his breath, he forced his body to relax. He was safe. Now all he had to do was meet up with the Underground, persuade them to give him some penicillin, then sneak back into camp. Nothing to it, right?

By the time the truck finally stopped, Hogan glanced at his watch and saw that only 20 minutes had passed since he'd snuck into the back with the dogs. Good. If they were at their destination, that meant he should have plenty of time to get what he needed and make it back to camp before he was missed.

He crouched down amongst the dogs when the door was opened, just in case it was someone other than Schnitzer, but popped up the moment he heard the man's friendly voice.

He climbed out of the back and looked at his surroundings while Schnitzer ordered his dogs out of the truck. They were on a farm in the country, not far outside Hammelburg Hogan supposed. The barn was large and looked like it had been built for livestock long ago, but now was an ideal kennel for Stalag 13's guard dogs.

Schnitzer gestured to the colonel, "Come, I have to put the dogs in their pens and then we can use the radio. I keep it in the loft of the barn." He grinned. "No one would dare to sneak in there with all my dogs."

The colonel followed Schnitzer into the barn, waiting patiently by the door while the dogs were taken care of, then climbed the ladder to the loft after Schnitzer. The radio was hidden amongst a pile of ancient farm equipment and looked like an antique itself, but it came right on when Schnitzer turned on the power. Hogan couldn't make out anything he was saying as the German spoke carefully into the microphone, but when Schnitzer finally signed off, he told Hogan that the head of the Hammelburg Underground himself had agreed to come meet him.

Hogan felt a nervous excitement at the news. This was unfolding exactly as he'd planned so far...when was the other shoe going to drop? Surely something would go wrong.

Keeping his concerns to himself, the colonel trailed behind Schnitzer, this time into the farmhouse. He peered around curiously as he entered. He'd never been in a German home before, and it was very different from the houses he was used to back home. This place looked like it had stood there forever, with walls at least two feet thick and well-worn stone floors. It was easily a couple of hundred years old, and Hogan marveled at how comfortable and permanent it seemed. He found himself hoping it would survive the war.

His host offered Hogan a seat in the kitchen and then brought out a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. He cut a thick slice of each for Hogan and himself, then poured some wine from a bottle that had already been on the table. It was a simple enough meal, but Hogan could genuinely say he hadn't tasted anything this good in months.

Enjoying the simple luxury of good food, a warm room, and wine, Hogan breathed in deeply. Then, without warning, the reality of where he was hit him.

He was free. He was really, truly free. For one brief, glorious moment, Hogan allowed the exhilaration of not being controlled, of no longer being a prisoner, wash over him. It was a rush that he'd not been prepared for and it caught him off-guard. With heady excitement, he knew he could get up, open the door and just keep going. He knew the contacts. He knew the escape routes. Schnitzer wouldn't stop him. What would be more natural than taking this chance and heading for England? He tensed his muscles as if to rise before he caught himself with shock.

No! He took a steadying breath and settled back, crushing the idea. Tempting as it was—and oh, it was _so_ tempting—he had a responsibility he was not about to shirk. He had sworn an oath to serve his country and that meant remaining a prisoner for now. Moreover, he had men who were counting on him to help save their friend. In the grand scheme of things, duty would always triumph over his own selfish desires. The time to go home would come someday, but for now, he was where he needed to be and doing what he needed to do.

These thoughts had washed over him in mere moments, but when he glanced over to the other man, he could tell that the German had read his face accurately, for in Schnitzer's expression he could see sympathy mingled with approval. Smiling ruefully as if to acknowledge all that wasn't being said, Hogan took another sip of wine.

While the two men continued to wait for the Underground leader to arrive, they made small talk—weather, wines, music, movies, and so on. There were some awkward moments when the gulf between their two cultures opened between them, but for the most part they chatted like two casual strangers just getting to know each other.

By the time the food and drink was finished, though, Hogan was getting antsy. He couldn't afford to be gone too long. What if the men overplayed their hand and Klink had ordered a roll call? What would the men do? Would they know how to improvise? With a flash of insight, he found himself wishing Newkirk was able to help—he had a feeling the man was enough of a con artist to talk his way out of almost anything. But if his contact didn't come soon, he'd never have the chance to see if Newkirk's talents could be put to use. He audibly sighed and looked at the door.

Hogan was embarrassed when Schnitzer raised an eyebrow at him. He hadn't meant to be so obviously impatient.

Even so, he couldn't help but ask, "Do you know how far he had to come?"

Schnitzer had started to say, "Not far…" when someone knocked at the door.

Both men arose, instantly alert. Yes, they were expecting someone, but if it wasn't their contact, it would be dangerous for anyone else to see the American prisoner.

Schnitzer moved to the door and called out something, relaxing when he heard the reply. He opened the door and stood back to let a man in. The newcomer was on the short side, lean, dark hair, maybe in his late 40s. From his clothes, Hogan would guess that he was a railroad worker. He wondered if the man had been at work even though it was a holiday, but then put aside the thought as the Underground leader approached him.

Up close, Hogan could finally see his face, and the man looked cold, hard. Not someone he'd want to cross. But Hogan could also see a deep intelligence and somehow felt he could trust him. He could work with this man.

"I'm Colonel Robert Hogan," he said, holding out his hand.

"Albert Eicher."

The two men shook hands and then Eicher spoke, his expression giving away nothing.

Hogan decided that he _really_ needed to learn German as he turned to Schnitzer for a translation.

"Herr Eicher says he knows a black market supplier of penicillin." Schnitzer paused before reluctantly adding, "But it is very costly. He wants to know what you have to exchange for it."

Hogan fought to keep the alarm off his face. How could he have been so stupid? He'd never even thought of paying for the medicine. Now he realized it was naïve to expect the Underground to simply give it to him—he and his men were nothing to them. He knew that in time they could prove to be worthy allies, but for now he was simply a POW who was asking for some very rare and expensive medicine that the Underground certainly needed themselves.

But Newkirk didn't have time to wait for Hogan to prove himself to Eicher—he needed the medicine _now_. Hogan looked directly at Eicher and said frankly, "I'm sorry, but I don't have any way to pay you. All I can offer is a commitment to work with you on future operations and a promise that whatever your price for the penicillin, I'll find a way to get it. That's the best I can do today, but I give my word you won't regret helping me."

Eicher didn't look at Schnitzer as the other German translated. Instead, he kept his eyes squarely on Hogan, sizing him up.

Hogan started to inwardly despair after a long minute in which he could see no change in Eicher's hard expression. He wanted to say more, was tempted to say "_please_"—begging would not be beneath him if it meant saving the life of one of his men. But Hogan had always been good at reading people, even if he'd been neglecting those skills since his capture, and he could see that Eicher wouldn't be swayed by such an appeal.

Instead he bore the man's scrutiny in silence, hoping the Underground leader would find in his face the assurance that Hogan meant what he said.

Finally, Eicher nodded and Hogan quietly released the breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Then the German spoke at length and Hogan flicked his eyes to Schnitzer, waiting once again for the translation.

"Herr Eicher had heard rumors of London's desire for an escape and sabotage unit based inside a prisoner of war camp—he is pleased the operation will be near Hammelburg. He will do what he can to help you set up operations. He can supply you with radio parts—I will bring them to you over time. Once you are established, you can discuss additional arrangements. Weapons, exchange of intelligence, assistance in sabotage operations, other such things."

Hogan didn't smile at the still-somber Eicher. It was his turn to nod.

"Tell him I appreciate his help. Once I have a radio I can get in touch with London and they've promised to provide supplies as well. I'm sure our arrangement will be mutually beneficial."

After pausing for Schnitzer to translate, he continued. "I don't mean to rush things, but did you explain our timeline for getting me back to camp? Does he know we only have 2 hours, and it's already been just over one? Is it possible to get a hold of the penicillin in the next 45 minutes or so?"

Schnitzer relayed Hogan's question, but instead of answering, Eicher pulled something out of his pocket. Hogan didn't need anyone to interpret when Eicher handed over a small bottle and syringe.

Hogan felt his heart pound as he reached for the bottle. He hadn't expected the Underground leader to have the penicillin on him and yet…here it was. He grinned as he realized that he'd done it. Despite his earlier show of confidence with the men, he hadn't known until this moment how seriously he'd doubted his ability to pull this off. He'd lost something of himself after being shot down, and only in this moment could see just how profoundly it had changed his sense of self worth. Now, knowing that his hasty plan had worked and he was actually holding what could make the difference between life and death for a young soldier, he felt confidence surge back into his veins. He was aware he still had to get back into camp, but now he knew he'd make it.

Hogan tucked the precious liquid safely into his pocket then held out his hand and shook Eicher's warmly.

"Thank you. This means a great deal to us. I promise I'll find a way to repay you."

Eicher, too, needed no translation for Hogan's heartfelt thanks. He nodded and then, for the first time, he smiled as he spoke. It changed his appearance entirely, allowing Hogan to see a hint of the man Eicher must have been before the war.

"He says he'll be in touch soon," Schnitzer translated.

"I'm looking forward to it," Hogan said.

After Eicher left, there was nothing to do but wait until Stalag 13 called. Truthfully, even though Hogan knew he needed to get the medicine back as soon as possible, he enjoyed his remaining time at the farmhouse. Schnitzer stayed indoors so he'd be near the phone, and he and Hogan spent the time chatting and getting to know one another further. To Hogan it seemed almost surreal to be sitting there in a German house, relaxing as if he was visiting with friends. A few months ago he wouldn't have been able to even imagine such a thing, but now it felt right.

Still, as pleasant as it was, when the phone finally rang Hogan sprang to his feet, ready to leave. He waited tensely as he listened to his host talk on the phone, hoping this was the call they were waiting for. When Schnitzer turned and nodded with a smile, Hogan smiled back. Strange as it sounded, he was anxious to get 'home.'

Within a few minutes, Hogan was back in the truck, joined by only a couple of dogs this time. He spoke to them briefly, even venturing to pat one on the head. When it didn't snap at him, Hogan gave it a little scratch behind the ears and then settled on the bed of the truck next to it.

As the truck bumped along the road, Hogan had a while to reflect on things. As a bomber pilot, he'd flown many missions and was intimately familiar with the adrenaline rush associated with returning home after a successful mission. He was experiencing a similar feeling right now, but added to it was something else. Something he hadn't anticipated.

Hogan shifted to make himself more comfortable and grinned as he realized what it was. He was enjoying himself. Yes, just like when he was flying, he was proud to be doing his part towards the war effort, but this was very different from soaring thousands of feet above the enemy. This spy business was going to be up close and personal in a way like he'd never experienced before…and he liked it. He inhaled deeply with satisfaction. Unfortunate circumstances had brought him to this point in his life, but maybe it was meant to be, because he'd never felt so alive.

oOoOoOoOo


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Hogan's sense of satisfaction and contentment continued on his way back to Stalag 13, in spite of the fact that the ride itself was anything but comfortable. Riding in the back of a truck, he reflected, wasn't the most luxurious form of transportation. During his trip out he'd been focused on the upcoming meeting and hadn't paid much attention to the jostling and banging, but now he was getting bruises on top of bruises, not to mention it was _freezing_ in the back of the truck.

He let his thoughts drift by comparing his current accommodations to equally uncomfortable flying conditions. He supposed it could be worse…at least no one was trying to shoot him down. These idle thoughts were rudely interrupted when the truck hit a large pothole and he was reminded forcibly by a very menacing growl to stop daydreaming and keep his mind on the present. Hogan had been tossed across the bed of the truck and ended up crashing into one of the dogs, much to their mutual displeasure. The dog's warning growl, accompanied by the snap of a very sharp set of teeth, sent Hogan scrambling back to his side.

Wide eyed, Hogan watched his traveling companions and wondered if he could yell loud enough for Schnitzer to hear him in the front of the truck if the dogs attacked. The dogs merely snarled once more, however, before settling down. Hogan blinked. He'd been sure he was about to become dog chow. Still, the incident reminded him that he needed to stay alert—what if the dogs had injured him and he couldn't get the medicine back to Newkirk?

The medicine! A horrifying thought washed over Hogan and he frantically reached into his pocket, fully expecting to find shards of glass. When his hand wrapped around the intact vial, he paused, felt it again, then a third time, not quite believing his luck. He wasn't sure how the small glass bottle had managed to survive his fall, but after what he'd risked to get it, he wasn't going to take any more chances. He tucked himself in the far corner of the truck near the cab and braced his feet against the floor. It magnified the bumps and he knew his back was going to be covered in bruises, but unless the truck itself flipped over, it would keep him from being thrown again. And…yes…he would admit it to himself, it would prevent him from further contact with the dogs. He didn't consider himself a coward, but wasn't about to test the dogs' patience by careening into them again—one look at those teeth were all he needed to confirm that he did _not_ want to be on their bad side.

oOoOoOo

The freezing, jarring trip back to the camp seemed to last at least twice as long as the one out, but eventually Hogan felt the truck turning onto the camp's entrance road and slowing down at the gate. When the truck stopped, he tensed—ready for anything. He crouched as low as possible, hoping to make himself invisible in the shadows if the guards chose to open the door.

He heard the sound of German voices just outside the truck. Only a thin sheet of metal separated him from the guards and he could hear them as clearly as if they were standing in front of him. How could they not hear his wildly beating heart?

He let out a slow breath when the truck started up again without incident and rolled into the camp, stopping a short distance later. Okay. He'd made it back into camp. Next step, getting out of the truck without being seen. He strained to hear—it was too quiet. Where were the men? Could he sneak out without a distraction? Come on guys! As if he'd cued them, a cacophony of noises erupted outside and a rumble of guards ran past the truck.

Still, he waited.

It wasn't long. He froze when the door opened, then jumped to action when he heard Schnitzer's harsh whisper that all was clear. Hogan squeezed Schnitzer's arm in a quick, silent thank you before slipping out of the truck and moved away from it as unobtrusively as he could. Putting on a nonchalant air, he headed over to the disturbance.

Things were going even better than he'd hoped. No one saw him, no one stopped him, no one was even looking his way. Grateful for the guards' lack of discipline as well as his men's enthusiastic distraction, Hogan confidently strode into the group and began pushing his way forward.

It was when he reached the front that he paused, thrown off-stride for just a moment. Yes, the men were doing a magnificent job of distracting everyone, but Hogan knew in an instant that the fight wasn't actually staged. It was Mitchell that Kinch was trying to pulverize into the hard, cold dirt. Mitchell! Where did he come from? He was supposed to be safely tucked away in a drugged sleep in Hogan's bunk. How did this happen?

No time to ponder irrelevant (at least for the moment) questions, though. Four of the guards were subduing the two fighters and others were shouting and pushing prisoners aside as the Kommandant approached. Hogan needed keep his head in the game.

"Colonel Hogan, what is the meaning of this?"

"Of what, Kommandant? Oh, you mean the men's wrestling practice? They're just getting ready for the tournament."

"Tournament? Hogan, there is no tournament. Don't think you can fool me. I can see your men are fighting."

"Now Kommandant, I know better than to try to get one past you. All I've heard since arriving is how nothing slips past your eagle eye, and I wouldn't dare to try. No, these men were just practicing."

Klink's eyes narrowed, but Hogan could see he was wavering.

"I told you last time if you couldn't keep your men under control, you'd end up in the cooler."

Oops. Right. Hogan had forgotten that little detail when he and the men had come up with their plans for a distraction. He mentally kicked himself, but didn't dwell on the oversight. Right now he had to keep the game going.

"Really Kommandant, if the men wanted to fight, do you think they'd do it outside where the guards would see them? Of course not. No, now that Christmas is over, the guys needed something to look forward to so we decided to hold a wrestling tournament. Kinch and Mitchell are two of our best so they're showing everyone some moves."

Klink frowned, still hesitating.

"Hogan, your men were using their fists. That is not how one wrestles."

Hogan kept the smile off his face as he realized how much fun he was having verbally sparring with the German officer.

"Well maybe not under the classic rules, but that's why Kinch and Mitchell were demonstrating. They were showing the fellas different moves allowed by the Barkley Standards for wrestling."

"Barkley Standards? Hogan, I've never heard of …"

"Of course you haven't, Kommandant. Those are special rules developed for the MRWC, the Midwest Regional Wrestling Conference. We thought they added something extra so Kinch and Mitchell were demonstrating."

Hogan would never know if Klink believed his preposterous explanation, for at that moment the icy wind that had been seeping through every fold of clothing chose to pick and blew through the camp with a howl. With a shiver, Klink gave up.

"Very well, I suppose a small tournament is acceptable. But Hogan, next time I expect to be informed of your activities before you create a disturbance. You wouldn't want the guards to think your men were trying to escape would you? Since I have been here not one prisoner has escaped and my perfect record…."

Hogan cut him off before Klink got off track and started one of his already-tedious speeches. "That would be terrible colonel. My men know better than to try to escape from the toughest prisoner of war camp in all of Germany."

"Toughest camp? Well, I suppose it is, at least since I've been Kommandant. You see, Hogan, I…."

Hogan breathed a sigh of relief and thanked his lucky stars when another gust of wind whipped through the camp and Klink cut off his words with a shudder.

Klink pulled his collar tightly around his neck and, glaring at the guards, stated imperiously, "What are you standing around here for? Get these prisoners back into their barracks!" Then he turned around abruptly and hurried back to the relative warmth of his office. The guards who'd been awaiting the Kommandant's orders looked at each other blankly for a moment, then simply released Kinch and Mitchell and shooed everyone back into the barracks.

oOoOoOo

Hogan entered the barracks with the rest of the men, keeping a serious expression on his face until the door shut and he was alone with them. Then he couldn't help the smile that blossomed as he nodded to the anxious men.

"The meeting with the Underground couldn't have gone better—we got it!" he said with satisfaction, holding up the penicillin.

He grin grew wider when the men lit up, slapping each other on the back at the news.

He strode over to his room and pulled open the door, for once not worrying about waking Newkirk. The man needed his rest, but it wouldn't hurt him to know that the means for recovery had finally arrived.

"I'm back, doc," he announced happily and closed the door before turning to the medic. It was only then that Hogan's little bubble of happiness popped. Wilson was slumped dejectedly in the chair by the desk and was looking at him sadly. And Newkirk…he looked over to the bed and saw that Newkirk wasn't moving at all. The corporal lay motionless on the bunk, the fever-flush that had been giving his face its only color gone, leaving it gray and sunken. Hogan's breath left him in one great, whoosh. He was too late. Newkirk was dead.

"Doc…" he said, stunned.

"Glad to see you back in one piece, colonel," Wilson said genuinely, but unhappiness crept through despite his words.

When Wilson didn't ask if Hogan had the penicillin and refused to look the colonel in the eye, it confirmed Hogan's fears. No! His breath hitched as his heart began to hammer. No. It couldn't end this way. They'd done it. _He'd_ done it. He'd thrown off his despair and led his men to an almost miraculous achievement. With no time to prepare, the men had come through and he'd escaped from Stalag 13, met with the Underground, got the lifesaving drug, and returned…all under the noses of the Germans. How could it have all been for nothing? The unfairness of it, following on the joy of just moments ago, was staggering.

"When…" Hogan had to clear his throat. "When did he go?"

Wilson blinked. "Go?" His puzzled gaze drifted to Newkirk and back before flickering with understanding.

"He's not dead, colonel," he said resignedly. "He's just..…it won't be long," he finished inadequately.

Hogan didn't fully hear the end of Wilson's statement. He focused only on the first words. Newkirk wasn't dead?

Forcing his hand not to shake, he held out the vial. "Then this will still help," he said firmly, the tone in his voice daring Wilson to contradict him.

"Colonel, you don't understand. He took a turn for the worse after you left and…," the medic began, shaking his head. Then he stopped himself and took the small bottle. "It can't hurt," he finished with a wan smile.

Hogan watched as, without further word, Wilson expertly took the vial and withdrew the correct amount with the syringe, before gently rolling Newkirk on his side and giving him the injection.

As Wilson went about tucking the unresponsive man back under the covers, Hogan felt his energy nosedive and he sat heavily in the chair recently vacated by the medic. His part of the crazy mission was done and the resulting loss of adrenaline along with the rollercoaster of emotions he'd been experiencing hit him hard. With his elbow on the desk, he propped his head up with his hand while he silently watched Wilson fuss over his patient.

By the time Wilson was finished and had turned back toward him, however, he felt his energy coming back and was able to sound like his usual commanding self. "All right, doc, tell it to me straight."

Wilson leaned his hip against the desk and answered, "He was holding on until, oh…'bout an hour ago, I guess, Newkirk just seemed to…well, to just give up. Up until then, he was…I dunno how to describe it…even though he was out of it you could tell that somewhere inside he was still fighting. Then when I was trying to cool him down some, he opened his eyes and looked right at me. Surprised me, I can tell you. He was really aware for the first time in days—he knew me, colonel. He didn't say anything, but he just looked at me for the longest time. Then he closed his eyes and that was it. It was like someone had flipped a switch, 'cause ever since then he's been shutting down. Like when he looked at me he was saying goodbye and now he's going. I…I didn't say anything to the men. Didn't have the heart to break it to them before he was actually gone."

Hogan closed his eyes. He didn't know why the death of this one young man was affecting him so greatly. He'd had other men die. Good men. Friends. Men who he'd known well and respected. He'd mourned them all, but now he was finding it hard to accept the loss of a man he didn't even _like _and doubted he ever would. Why was this loss hitting him so hard?

He was silent for a long minute, then finally just for something to say, asked, "Does he still have a fever?"

Wilson nodded.

"But his cheeks aren't red anymore."

"I know. All the color just drained away."

"Why? Does that mean anything to you?"

Shrugging, Wilson said helplessly, "I don't know. I only know he looks like every spark of life dried up and blew away, like he's dead already."

Hogan had to agree with Wilson's assessment. It had been his own impression, after all.

"But the penicillin could help? He could still rally?"

Wilson took a moment before answering, then sighed. "Maybe. I've seen men who should've been fine die, and others who by all rights should be dead pull though. There's no fool-proof way to know. Before today I'd have said he had a fair chance if he got some penicillin. Now…I just don't know."

Without warning, Hogan found himself angry. Dammit! This was wrong. Everything had worked out as he'd planned. Better than planned. And he'd learned how easy it was going to be to manipulate Klink. Everything had been going right, but now they were going to lose Newkirk anyway….

No! Determinedly pushing aside doubts, Hogan stated, "If he's got a chance, we'll see to it that he makes it. I'm not giving up."

"Colonel…"

"I know!" Hogan held up his hand, not wanting Wilson to continue.

He continued in a softer voice. "Look, I know. I understand what you're telling me. I do. But keeping a positive attitude's important. For him and for us. It won't do any good if we don't expect him to survive."

When Wilson continued to look at the colonel skeptically, Hogan went on, "We won't tell the men what you told me. I want to keep their spirits up—if they don't believe he'll make it, he'll pick up on their feelings when they visit with him. I've heard that things can break through even to the unconscious mind and we can't take that chance. So that also means you, sergeant. You've just got to believe that he'll make it, too. You've done a great job so far. No need to start doubting yourself now."

Wilson didn't look convinced, but reluctantly he shrugged. "You got it, sir. For sure he's a stubborn enough cuss, maybe that'll be enough."

"Good. Then you stay with him while I go chat with the guys for a bit. You need anything, you holler."

oOoOoOo

Hogan's talk with the men went far better than the one with Wilson. When he rejoined them, he found them still in an eager, happy frame of mind.

Not even Mitchell's presence, he was glad to see, was spoiling the mood. The troublemaking sergeant was lying on his bunk with his back turned to the group and was basically being ignored. Hogan looked over at him for a moment, wondering how much he could trust him—it would be impossible to hide what they'd done from someone living in the same barracks.

His concern must have shown on his face, for Kinch shook his head and said with a satisfied gleam in his eye, "Don't worry sir, he's out again."

Hogan cocked an eyebrow, wondering if Mitchell's unconscious state was a result of the lingering effects of Wilson's drugs, or if it was 'helped' along by Kinch's fists. Deciding he didn't care that much at the moment, he nodded with satisfaction and turned to the men who were gathering around him eagerly. The instant he turned his attention to them, the men started peppering him with questions. What it was like outside? Had he run into any trouble? Had he seen any girls? Did he trust the Underground leader? How long would it take for the medicine to help Newkirk? What were his next plans? Had he seen any girls?...

In his element, Hogan answered the excited questions one at a time, pushing to the back of his mind Newkirk's deteriorating condition, he reveled in the intense satisfaction of being part of a team once again. He didn't want it to end, but eventually one of the men, who'd wisely been keeping track of the time, piped up and reminded everyone that noon roll call was just around the corner.

After a warning to the men to act as if everything was business as usual, Hogan went to get Wilson while the men woke up Mitchell. Thus when Zimmerman entered the barracks and began his usual ranting about roll call, the men were ready and trooped out into the cold as if it was just another day at Stalag 13.

* * *

A/N: I am SO sorry it's taken me so long to post this chapter. I won't even tell you the stupid thing I did (it resulted in me losing around 15 pages of writing, though, and I'm having to completely rewrite everything). My original chapter had Newkirk's recovery, but I decided to stop here and at least post what I've rewritten so far. Sorry again. Sigh.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 – 1 Jan

"How's he doin', doc?"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Hogan could have bitten his tongue. He'd meant to hold off asking…again. It was the fourth time in the last two hours that he'd prodded Wilson for an update, and he knew from the tight expression on the medic's face that he was trying the man's patience. Even so, Wilson managed a respectful tone as he started to answer.

"Colonel, he…"

Before he could finish, the door creaked open and Corporal O'Brien poked his head in.

"Any change, doc?"

Where Wilson had kept his cool for Hogan, he wasn't so successful with O'Brien. Forgetting he was answering the colonel, he whipped his head around to the hapless corporal and scowled.

"I swear not 10 minutes goes by without someone barging in here and asking if Newkirk's better. What do you expect? That he'll be up sipping tea by now? It doesn't work like that. Even if Newkirk recovers…and that's a big if…it'll be a long time before he's even close to being up and about. He was already skin-and-bones from being locked up in that damned ice box for months. And that was before they beat the crap out of him. You can't expect someone to get over that in the blink of an eye. I don't work miracles!"

"Doc." Hogan's voice was calm, but there was a core of sternness in it. He sympathized with Wilson and understood the immense pressure he was under, trying to save a very sick man under less than ideal conditions. But O'Brien didn't deserve to be the target of Wilson's frustrations.

The message in his tone didn't reach Wilson. In fact, it looked like Wilson was just getting started, for he turned to Hogan and continued.

"We're in a POW camp. A _prisoner of war_ camp! Do you know what that means? There's not enough food. The food we get isn't healthy. The medical supplies are a joke…"

"Doc."

"…and no, we don't have a doctor. Just me. A lousy medic.

"_Doc_..."

"…You know not all the fellas have a decent coat? And most of the guys don't have gloves. How can they stay warm or dry? If the cold doesn't get them the wet will, 'cause even inside the roofs leak. And if life wasn't bad enough with the enemy shouting at you and threatening to shoot you for breaking some rule they just made up, we've got ourselves a CO who thinks it's okay to beat the stuffing out of a guy just because he doesn't like him. And why everyone thinks that…

"Sergeant!"

Hogan didn't like using that particular tone, but it finally broke through Wilson's rant. The medic bit off his next words and blinked.

"..…"

Taking pity on the wide-eyed and now speechless man, Hogan first turned to O'Brien and said, "You're dismissed, corporal."

O'Brien didn't hesitate to get out of the firing line and fled without a word.

Hogan turned back to Wilson and said with a sigh, "I get that you're frustrated, sergeant. You've been fighting an uphill battle with Newkirk and I'm sure it doesn't help when everyone's pushing you for answers." Then he added with a friendly warning, "But ease up. O'Brien isn't the enemy here…and neither am I."

Wilson ducked his head and acknowledged sheepishly, all the fire sucked out of him as he remembered who he'd been ranting at, "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I'm not usually…well, that is…I was out of line. It's just…if I'd charged a nickel for each time one of the guys poked his head in to ask about Newkirk, I'd have to wear a second pair of pants just to carry all the change. And every time it reminds me that…well, colonel…that that man over there is dying and it was one of _us_ that did it to him. It makes me so mad I could just bust a gut. I knew when I joined that I'd see some pretty awful things, and believe me I have. But it's one thing when it's an enemy doing it; it's another when it's the guy who's supposed to be looking out for you."

Hogan grimaced. Yeah, that was a particularly difficult pill to swallow…for all of them. But he could make one thing clear.

"What Group Captain Hughes did was wrong on countless levels. He betrayed his duty and I'm sorry you men had to deal with that. But you need to know that he is no longer your CO…I am, and I will do everything I can to get all of you out of this place in one piece. I can't promise that no one else will get hurt, sick, or even die. In fact, the reality of where we are makes it pretty certain that your skills will be needed a lot before this is all over, but no matter the provocation, I _can_ assure you what happened to Newkirk will never happen under my command."

Wilson relaxed a little as he said, "Thank you, sir. That means a lot. We try to look out for each other, but it'll sure be a lot easier if the guy at the top is on our side." He turned to gaze at his sleeping patient. "I just wish…" He stopped and shook his head.

"You wish he'd wake up?" Hogan completed the thought.

Wilson sighed deeply. "Yes sir, of course that, but what I was going to say is I wish you'd gotten here earlier and stopped this before it happened. I know you told me to keep positive, but…but honestly, I still don't think he'll make it and every time one of you asks me how he's doing I get so mad that I can't do more."

Hogan felt a sharp pang of guilt. He should have kept Hughes in line. Newkirk would never have been beaten and Wilson wouldn't be having these feelings of inadequacy if Hogan had done a better job at keeping Hughes under control. He was grateful Wilson didn't seem to blame him for Hughes' actions, but in his heart he knew he'd let the men down by wallowing in his own misery and not seeing the potential for problems. Never again. He had already decided to be the leader these men needed, but now he repeated this oath to himself…he was going to take care of his men no matter the cost to him. These men deserved a leader who put them first and he would never let them down again. He put a comforting hand on Wilson's shoulder.

"Sergeant Wilson…doc…whatever the outcome is, know this. Newkirk has a chance and it's because of you. Without you he'd be dead. I'm sorry this all happened in the first place and it's on me that I didn't prevent it. But you take comfort in the fact that you've done everything you could. And hey…you're doing good. Newkirk's still alive, isn't he?"

Wilson turned back to Hogan, his face solemn, but his eyes a bit less troubled. "Yes sir, he is." He sighed briefly before quirking a small smile. "And I'm sorry I keep needing pep talks. I shouldn't let this get to me the way it has."

Hogan squeezed the medic's shoulder once before patting it. From the little grin that ghosted over Wilson's face, Hogan thought maybe he'd gotten through to the man.

After a few more minutes visiting quietly with Wilson, Hogan left the doc to check Newkirk's bandages again while he joined the rest of the men in the main room. They were all looking worried, no doubt O'Brien's abrupt exit from the room had led to all kinds of expectations of bad news. Thankfully Hogan was able to pass on that Newkirk was doing the same—no better but no worse.

The rest of the day passed in the same manner, the men keeping themselves busy with their normal distractions—playing cards, writing letters, reading—all while surreptitiously watching the door to the officers' room, awaiting word that their friend was improving. By lights out, they quietly accepted that there wouldn't be any good news that day.

* * *

The following morning, Newkirk still was stubbornly refusing to improve. Granted, he hadn't taken a turn for the worse overnight, but the men were getting impatient. After the thrilling excitement of the 'penicillin caper,' as they were calling it, it didn't seem right that now they were reduced to waiting, waiting, then waiting some more.

By that afternoon, the men's worry about Newkirk was not Hogan's main concern, however. At lunch he was finally told the reason for the fight between Kinch and Mitchell and he'd been wrestling with what to do ever since. Apparently the drugs Wilson had given Mitchell weren't as strong as they'd thought and he had woken up while the men were just about to stage their little distraction. Unable to resist mouthing off, Mitchell had threatened to tell the guards, resulting in the scene Hogan had witnessed and confirming there had been absolutely nothing fake about his fight with Kinch.

The resulting tension between Mitchell and the rest of the men in the barracks was bad enough, but that morning Mitchell had been fueling the fire with jabbing taunts about how Newkirk wasn't going to get better, regardless of what they'd risked. He wasn't threatening to go to the guards with his knowledge of what they'd done, but at this point Hogan wouldn't put anything past him.

After they returned from lunch, Hogan entered the main barracks and said, "Sergeant Mitchell, I need a word with you."

Mitchell, who had just sat down on his bunk, looked up at his commanding officer. For a moment, Hogan thought he'd seen a hint of fear on the man's face, but then a cold mask covered the look. Perhaps he was remembering what Hogan threatened him with last time they had a 'talk.' Good.

"Sir?" Mitchell asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Hogan nodded his head to the barracks door. "Grab your coat. We're going to take a walk."

Without further word, Mitchell slipped into his overcoat and followed Hogan out the door. Once they were several feet away from the barracks, he asked, "Yes, sir? You wanted to talk to me?" Again, carefully neutral.

"Just a minute."

They kept walking until they had past several other barracks and were near the mess hall when Hogan stopped and turned to the sergeant.

"I thought I made myself clear about you staying out of trouble. But you threatened to turn in our own guys to the Germans? Started a fight with Sergeant Kinchloe? Mouthed off about Newkirk dying? What do you think you're doing?"

Mitchell had braced himself at attention when Hogan started speaking and now simply looked forward without saying anything.

"Mitchell, you listening to me?"

Without meeting his eye, Mitchell glanced at Hogan before looking straight ahead again and said tightly, "Yes, sir."

"Well?"

His jaw worked for a few moments before answering, "I don't know what you want me to say. I didn't disobey you. I didn't touch Newkirk. I didn't throw the first punch at Kinchloe. And I didn't think expressing my opinion about how Newkirk has got one foot in the grave was against your rules."

Hogan narrowed his eyes as he studied the man in front of him. The tone wasn't insolent. If anything, Mitchell sounded carefully respectful. Maybe he was finally realizing that Hughes was no longer there to protect him and his little reign of bullying was over. Or more to the point, maybe he was catching on to how much trouble he was in. Beating another prisoner was bad enough, but being a traitor was a whole other ball of wax.

Hogan pressed the issue. "What about threatening to turn in your fellow prisoners to the guards? That may not have been on my 'list of rules,' but I really didn't think I needed to specify that one."

Hogan was glad to see Mitchell blanch.

"Uh...yes, sir." The sergeant flicked a nervous look at Hogan. "About that. I didn't mean it. I mean, I know I said it, but that was just to rile the guys. I wouldn't really have told the krauts anything."

A piercing wind blew between the buildings, but Hogan ignored its icy fingers as he glared at the man in front of him.

"You expect me to believe that? You've already showed that you have no trouble betraying your duty as an NCO, you nearly kill one of our own men, you create trouble every time I turn my back. What's to stop you from taking it one step further and betraying your country? How am I supposed to trust you?"

For the first time since meeting him, Hogan saw what the man could have been—saw _who_ he could have been if perhaps he'd had better leadership or a stronger character. For at Hogan's words Mitchell drew himself upright and looked his commanding officer straight in the eye as he said with dignity, "I admit I can't stand Newkirk and honestly believe the world would be better off without him, but I would _never_ betray my country. I'm sorry I said what I did. I thought it was stupid to risk everyone for that man, and hoped everyone would come to their senses if they realized how easily the Jerries could find out about it. But I would never have betrayed our men. I am no traitor. On that, you can trust me."

Yet another gust of icy wind whipped through the buildings, but Hogan didn't even notice it as he focused on the man in front of him. Could he trust him? If he did but he was wrong, it could mean serious trouble for a lot of good men if Mitchell said anything. Could even mean a firing squad, to be frank. But like it or not, Mitchell was one of his men and he owed it to the man to be fair, even if he didn't like him. If he wrongly labeled Mitchell a traitor, it would be an injustice and would make the rest of his stay here a living hell. And, of course, being shunned and treated like a traitor might very well turn him against his fellow prisoners. It wasn't easy to know what to do.

As he ran through his options, Hogan studied Mitchell, who was still looking at him intently. It was the most open look Hogan had ever seen on the sergeant's face, but Hogan couldn't forget finding Mitchell holding down a defenseless Newkirk as he was beaten. Even now, he could still feel a touch of the blinding anger he'd experienced when seeing it. But that aside, his gut was telling him that, at least in this, Mitchell could be trusted.

Coming to a decision, he said, "All right. I believe you, and this will be the end of it if nothing like that ever happens again. But let me give you fair warning, I'm not the only one you need to convince. You'll be staying in Barracks 2 where I can keep a close eye on you, so you have to think about getting along with the rest of the men. You need to explain yourself to them and, more importantly, offer an apology. No one can make it through this experience alone, so you'd better make things right. And let me be clear, the apology isn't just for your threats about going to the Germans, but more for what you did to Newkirk."

For a moment, Hogan thought he'd overestimated Mitchell, for his face twisted with resentment. But then the man caught himself, and he took a deep breath.

"Yes sir, I understand."

Hogan looked at Mitchell intently, then nodded his head.

"All right. Let's get back before we freeze."

The walk back to barracks was quiet, but Hogan was glad to see Mitchell was at least looking thoughtful as he made his way without word. Hogan wasn't naïve enough to think that Mitchell would ever be a key team member, but if he could at least moderate the man's hostility and negative influence, he'd consider that a win.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed quietly. Mitchell had, upon returning, tried to make amends by apologizing to the men. Hogan wasn't in the room at the time, feeling it was best for the enlisted men to work it out for themselves without his influence, but from the lessening of hostile and angry looks thrown Mitchell's way, he thought Mitchell must not have done too bad a job of things.

The only other issue for the rest of the day was deciding how to best deal with a small leak in the roof. It had started the evening before with an occasional drip, but now there was a constant 'drip…drip…drip…drip' of freezing water in the middle of the table. It was disrupting the usual card game as well as any hope of using the table to write letters. A bucket to catch the drips was the easiest and obvious solution. That worked for the first hour, but after that the sound of the water pinging in the bucket was soon driving the men mad. So they formed a small pyramid of men lifting LeBeau, easily the smallest, up to the ceiling so he could stuff a rag into the hole. That worked for about the next 30 minutes, until the cloth was soaked and the water began dripping off of it, once more directly onto the table. They tried moving the table and did find that the sound of the water dripping onto the floor wasn't nearly as annoying as when it was plinking into the bucket, but after two separate men slipped on the wet floor, they knew they needed yet another solution. Finally, someone came up with the idea of tying a string to the rag stuffed in the hole and running the string down to the bucket. Of course, that meant they needed a string long enough to reach from the ceiling to the bucket. No one was willing to unravel their scarves to donate to the cause, but after awhile, the men agreed that if each man who had a knit scarf unraveled an inch, they'd have enough to tie together and make it work. After an interesting hour of figuring out how to do that without ruining all the scarves, the men finished tying the string together, formed another pyramid to get LeBeau back up to the ceiling, and then sat back to view their handiwork. It was perfect. The drips followed the string down into the bucket without a sound, resolving the problem until the roof could be repaired.

Hogan had watched the entire production with amusement. It had kept the men occupied for most of the afternoon and was an interesting display of teamwork. Moreover it had kept their minds off of their friend, who was still making no signs of waking.

* * *

The next morning finally brought the change everyone had been waiting for. Naturally, it was during breakfast when Newkirk opened his eyes, so there was only one man in the barracks at the time to witness it. It was Kinch's turn to watch him while the others went to breakfast, and it was only by chance that he happened to be looking at Newkirk when his eyes blinked open. He had looked around without seeming to focus on anything, and by the time the others returned, Newkirk was once more deeply asleep. Everyone, however, shared in the wave of relief as Kinch spread the happy news that their friend had finally started crawling back to consciousness.

Hogan sent Private Harper to fetch Wilson, but then spent the next several minutes trying to control the chaos as the men started crowding in to Hogan's room, wanting to see proof of a change for themselves. Sharing in the men's desire to see Newkirk awake, but realizing that too much fuss probably wouldn't be the best thing for a seriously ill man, Hogan started to shoo everyone except Kinch out. LeBeau, it turned out, was a particular challenge, as the man seemed to forget English as he gestured and chattered excitedly in French. Eventually Hogan convinced him to leave and was able to close the door behind him. Then he sat down, prepared to wait quietly with Kinch for Wilson to arrive.

He was surprised when, after just a minute, Kinch broke the silence of the room. The words drifted across to him, so soft that he almost couldn't hear them.

"I really thought we'd lost him. It's hard to imagine this place with him gone. Bad enough when he was in the cooler, but this…"

It was the first time the quiet man had voluntarily shared personal thoughts with Hogan, and he was pleased to think that Kinch felt comfortable enough to voice them. Still intrigued by the unlikely friendship between the tall, quiet American sergeant and the brash, mouthy English corporal, Hogan grinned to himself. Maybe this was a chance to finally get some insight.

Curious to see how much he could get Kinch to open up, he prompted, "Newkirk sure has a lot of friends around here."

"Sir?" Kinch blinked. "Uhm, yes, sir."

Hogan wanted to smirk. Kinch had apparently been talking to himself. But that didn't mean Hogan was going to let things lie now that he'd started. If at first you don't succeed…

"Since we have a minute, why don't you tell me a little about Newkirk. A lot of people seem to care about him."

Kinch looked down at his friend and then back up to Hogan. He shrugged, "Yes, sir. We sure do."

Hogan waited for more, then shook his head. Apparently it was all the tall sergeant was going to say, for instead of elaborating, Kinch picked up a small cup and began to patiently dribble water into Newkirk's mouth, wiping up any stray drops.

Wondering how obvious he'd have to be before Kinch got the hint, Hogan once more tried to subtly prompt, "You're a good friend. Newkirk is lucky to have you."

Kinch glanced at Hogan, his forehead crinkling, then turned back to his task. "No more than we are to have him."

Stifling a snort, Hogan decided he'd need a direct approach if he wanted to get answers and satisfy his curiosity. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you two get so close? It doesn't seem like an obvious friendship."

Yes, Hogan knew he was prying, but hadn't expected the room temperature to turn decidedly frigid when Kinch responded coldly, "I can't understand what you mean, sir. I think it makes perfect sense."

Struck by the obvious hostility in Kinch's voice—being nosy hardly justified the dark look—Hogan tried to explain his comment without sounding like he was criticizing Newkirk, "But you two are so different. He's…well…he's…"

"Just say it, sir. It's because he's white." The voice was flat. Hard.

"What? No!" Shocked, the thought hadn't even crossed Hogan's mind. He kicked himself. Of course he was fully aware of society's general thoughts on racial issues, but he had personally never bought into the notion that a man's worth had anything to do with skin color. If he thought that way, he'd be just as bad as idiots like Hughes, condemning Newkirk for where he was born.

He hoped his sincerity was clear when he stated firmly, "I judge a man on who he is, his character, what he does. Nothing else. I was referring to the fact that you seem as steady as they come, while Newkirk is…" once more he searched for a word that wouldn't insult Kinch's friend, "…is a bit more…freespirited."

The tension that had been radiating out of Kinch melted and he grinned a bit sheepishly. "I'm sorry, sir. You just get used to people thinking a certain way and you forget that not everyone does. I know there's a lot of good folk out there, but I thought…well…"

He sent a fond look over to Newkirk before turning back to Hogan. "Anyway, sorry, sir. And, to answer your question, that's how it was with Peter. I mean, how we became friends. He's one of the good ones, you know? And I learned that my first day here."

When it didn't look like Kinch was going to explain more, Hogan prompted, "How?"

Kinch put the cup down and shrugged, turning to Hogan.

The colonel thought "finally!" when the sergeant began to speak.

"Well, I'd been having a pretty rough day by the time I met him, but from that moment on things changed. Before I got to Stalag 13, huh, let's just say the Germans hadn't exactly been welcoming hosts. I'd expected a rough time with them and they certainly didn't disappoint, but I didn't expect the same treatment from our own side. You see, I was processed along with a couple of other guys. Guys who turned out to be old southern country boys, and not the good kind. They got pretty heated about being locked up with me and decided to show me their feelings with their fists. That got Group Captain Hughes involved, and I can't say he was much better. Frankly, I preferred the Germans. At least I knew what to expect with them. Anyway, it didn't take long for Hughes to label me a troublemaker, and by the time all was said and done, I'd been thrown in with the Barracks 2 lot and was pretty much hating the entire human race."

He shook his head at the memory. "Man, I was bruised and sore from everything and so _angry_. When Zimmerman left me in the barracks, I sat down on a bunk—didn't know or care if it was someone else's—and leaned back against the wall, daring anyone to even look at me. I was spitting mad and itching for a fight, _hoping_ for someone to challenge me. Didn't have to say anything, 'cause everyone got the message loud and clear and left me alone. But then…" Kinch grinned, "then the door opens and this character blows in, does a quick survey of the room, and without further ado, sits down next to me and leans back, puts his arm around my shoulders and says in an accent so thick I could cut it with a knife, ''ello there, mate. Look 'ere, gents. We've got us a new fella to join our 'appy little band.' I almost knocked him across the room—but then he tightened his arm on my shoulder and gave me a look. I can't describe it, sir, but…but I knew he understood. He knew what I was going through, how I was feeling." Kinch sighed. "I know he can rub people the wrong way and he didn't win you over when you first met him, but there's a side to him you haven't seen yet."

Hogan blinked. He hadn't shared any details with the men about his interaction with Newkirk in the cooler. Kinch must be pretty good about reading people if he'd been able to pick up what Hogan had thought of the English corporal—he'd have to be sure to watch his behavior around this insightful man. Kinch was wrong about one thing, though. Hogan thought back to Newkirk, weak and beaten, defending Carter from the teasing. Remembered how he enlivened the men both in the barracks and in the dining hall. The colonel nodded to himself—he had seen a hint of the side Kinch was talking about. He thought about mentioning that, but then Kinch continued with a laugh of remembrance.

"I was still halfway thinking about decking him when he said, 'Looks like you've had a bit of a rough go, mate, but it's not as bad as it could be and you'll feel right at 'ome soon enough.' Then he stood up, smiled, and stuck out his hand, 'Corporal Peter Newkirk of his Majesty's Royal Air Force at your service. Let me introduce you to your new family. Now, what do they call you?' I didn't know what to think, but I stuck out my hand, gave him rank and name. He slapped me on the back like we'd been best buddies for years and said, 'Alright, Kinch, here are the rest of the lads.' I mean, he'd nicknamed me and was dragging me to my feet and introducing me before I could even remember I was supposed to be mad at everyone. Peter was…" Kinch shook his head helplessly. "I don't know how to explain it, sir. I was drowning and then there he was, bigger than life. Smiling, cheerful…_friendly_. He wasn't seeing me as a stranger, a black guy, an American, a sergeant…it was clear that to him I wasn't different. I was just another guy and he wanted to be my friend. After the day I'd had I can't tell you what that meant. Suddenly…suddenly I wasn't alone. I had 'mates' and I'd be okay. Or at least, yes, we were prisoners, but we were in it together. I don't know what he saw in me when he walked in and why he didn't steer clear like everyone else. Lord knows I wasn't feeling very friendly. But he took a chance on me and he's been like a brother ever since." Kinch smiled as he looked down at his sleeping friend. "Sometimes an annoying pesky brother who gets you into trouble, but…"

Kinch's voice trailed off and he looked away, as if suddenly aware that he'd shared far more than planned. Then he raised his head, unashamed.

"He may be a free spirit and unconventional, even disrespectful at times, sir, but there's nothing I wouldn't do for him and he's got a lot of friends who feel the same way."

Hogan wanted to swallow a sudden lump in his throat at the heartfelt emotion emanating from Kinch. He'd been right. There was a lot more to the young Englishman than the mouthy, insolent troublemaker who he'd met in the cooler. A part of him had known at the time he was letting himself be blinded by his own anger at Newkirk's behavior, not taking the time to unravel why the corporal might be acting that way. Ha! And just a few moments ago he'd been assuring Kinch that he wasn't one to judge a book by its cover. He looked over at Newkirk and smiled and found himself _liking_ the man Kinch was describing. Hogan's own unpleasant experience with the man notwithstanding, Newkirk was proving to be "one of the good ones."

* * *

A/N: I know...not a lot of moving the plot forward in this one. I'm still struggling after losing what I'd written (which included all my plot outlines.) Wanted to post this to let you know I'm not giving up, though! Thanks again to anyone reviewing...I have a sad feeling I didn't get a response to everyone this past chapter and I apologize if that's the case. I really do appreciate all your reviews. :) K


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Throughout the rest of the day Newkirk showed additional signs of improvement—stronger heartbeat, deeper breathing, and even a few more times when he opened his eyes. He didn't speak, but simply the return to consciousness made his friends happy, especially after Wilson confirmed during his last check of the day that Newkirk's fever was definitely dropping.

It was in the late morning the next day, however, that the young corporal truly woke and for the first time was aware of what was going on. LeBeau was trying to feed him some broth when Newkirk opened his eyes and frowned, weakly batting at the spoon.

"Pierre!" LeBeau shouted, spilling the contents of the spoon on his friend in his excitement.

Hogan, who'd been at his desk reading, walked to the bunk and arrived just in time to hear LeBeau say quietly, "Oh, I'm sorry, mon ami, was I too loud?"

"What…what're you…" The voice was barely a whisper.

LeBeau smiled softly at his friend.

"Shhh, you're okay. You've just…"

The door flew open and a jumble of men burst in to the room, voices tripping over each other as they all tried to speak at the same time.

"What happened?" "Is he alright?" "Did he wake up?"

"Ça suffit!" LeBeau hissed, leaning in front of Newkirk as if to protect him from the bombardment of noise.

"Men…" Hogan added sternly.

"Sorry, sir" whispered Kinch, obviously embarrassed that he'd been part of the rabble. He turned to the Frenchman. "Why did you shout? What happened?"

LeBeau leaned back again, exposing a wide awake, although definitely confused Newkirk.

Kinch flashed a brilliant smile at LeBeau then kneeled down and put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "Hey buddy. Glad to see you awake," he said gently.

"Kinch? Louis? Why…wha…"

"You've been a bit sick, but you're getting better now," explained Kinch. "Louis was just feeding you some of his broth to help get your strength up."

Newkirk's eyes slowly went from Kinch to LeBeau, finally resting on the bowl the Frenchman was still clutching in his hands.

"…not eatin' that," he said with a pout.

Hogan stood back, content to merely observe. Kinch, he saw, stifled a laugh, while LeBeau pretended to be annoyed.

"You need this to regain your strength. I cooked it especially for you. That's just like an ungrateful Englishman!" said LeBeau with a huff.

A second later, Hogan saw LeBeau drop the act as Newkirk closed his eyes.

"Pierre?...Pierre?"

Newkirk was out again.

LeBeau looked up worriedly at Kinch, then Hogan.

"Let him sleep for awhile," said Hogan. "You can try again in a bit, but I think waking up wore him out."

LeBeau cast a troubled look at the colonel, but agreed reluctantly, "Oui. Wilson wanted him to finish the bowl, but he didn't say it had to be now."

Hogan was surprised when Kinch snarked, "Maybe if you made it taste better he'd eat more."

He understood what Kinch was doing, however, when the worried expression disappeared from LeBeau's face to be replaced with irritation.

"Taste better?"

What followed was a long tirade of French that Hogan couldn't understand, but was probably a stinging description of Kinch's questionable tastes. The colonel couldn't help but grin…Kinch had known exactly how to get LeBeau's mind off of their ailing friend. He glanced down at Newkirk and was surprised to see a hint of a smile on the Englishman's face even though his eyes remained closed. So maybe he wasn't completely out after all. Still, he needed his rest.

"Fellas."

LeBeau broke off in mid rant at the quiet interruption.

Hogan tilted his head towards Newkirk and all three men saw the very definite grin on Newkirk's face now.

LeBeau rolled his eyes at his friends while Kinch grinned and said, "Think I'll come back later, sir."

With a respectful nod, Kinch and the other men who'd been hovering silently in the background left, closing the door behind them to leave the room quiet once more.

Hogan watched for a moment as LeBeau grabbed a cloth and began wiping up the spoonful of broth he'd dumped on Newkirk earlier. Newkirk opened his eyes at that and, after sharing a look with LeBeau, shut them again wearily, appearing to fall asleep for real this time.

When LeBeau was done, Hogan sat back down at his desk and tried once more to read, but eventually stopped to look at the Frenchman, who was sitting still, doing nothing but looking at his sleeping friend.

"I think he'll be alright," reassured Hogan quietly.

LeBeau turned to the colonel and shrugged one shoulder despondently. "I know he seems better. But I'll believe it when he can stay awake for more than a minute. He's not supposed to be so still. It's not…Newkirk."

Wanting to distract the corporal from his worry, Hogan decided to use Kinch's technique and said, "Well your broth seemed to get a reaction from him. I take it he doesn't like the taste much?"

It didn't work. In fact, if anything LeBeau looked upset by the question and answered with a bare honesty. "I don't know if he likes it or not."

"What? But earlier when Kinch said…"

LeBeau shook his head and interrupted almost angrily, "It's all just a game. A game we play to keep our sanity. We fuss and argue about stupid things so we can pretend that's what's important and not think about being stuck in a prison camp with our lives in the hands of men who would be happy to kill us. We all play the game, but it doesn't matter. Even pretending we're mad about stupid things is better than thinking about the real problems."

Hogan blinked. It was the most blunt and sober thing he'd ever heard LeBeau say. Moreover, it was undoubtedly true. His opinion of the men moved up another notch. These men were survivors, pure and simple.

He stood and walked to LeBeau, putting a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "You're doing a pretty good job at addressing the real problems. Newkirk's getting better because of you—how all of you have pitched in taking care of him."

LeBeau relaxed under the colonel's touch and gave him a real, if somewhat sad smile.

"I think you had something to do with it, too. But yes, we all take care of each other. And Pierre does his part every time." He snickered. "He would make a good nurse, but don't tell him I said so. Some of the barracks even ask for him specifically when they're all sick."

Hogan frowned. He wasn't stupid and of course had assumed that illness was something he'd have to contend with as the head POW, but LeBeau was making it sound like it was a frequent occurrence. "The men get sick a lot?"

LeBeau looked at him with surprise. "Oui, bien sûr. Uh, of course. We live so close together that anytime one of us gets sick, many of us do. It's better now with the Red Cross packages, and Klink isn't as bad as our first Kommandant, but sometimes there are more sick men than healthy ones. Especially at first, we were always sick." He shook his head. "Our first summer here was bad. Very bad. The camp was a lot worse than now. It was hot and filthy and there were only a few barracks built so it was crowded and awful. Many of the men became very sick." He wrinkled his nose, remembering. "Ugh, for many, nothing would stay down. It was coming out both ends and those who weren't sick got almost no sleep for weeks trying to help them drink, trying to keep them clean. Even so…even so many men died. That's the first time I made the broth. We gave it to the worst ones, to the ones that couldn't keep anything else down."

Hogan grimaced, hating the war all over again at the thought of these good men suffering in wretched conditions with only some homemade broth to help keep them alive.

He sighed. "Well, this broth is keeping Newkirk alive now, so even if he doesn't want it, we'll have to find a way to make him take it.

LeBeau actually grinned. "That's easy. When he's asleep he doesn't mind. And when he's awake…when he's awake, there are plenty of volunteers to force him. Jones and Chapman are especially good at making him do what he doesn't want to do."

Hogan winced. That was another problem he would have to solve soon enough. It had to be freezing in the cooler and he wasn't about to let Klink keep all those men locked up in there for too much longer. They'd just end up with more sick men if he did. Of course, he wasn't looking forward to dealing with Hughes just yet. He gave a mental sigh. He'd always been told he was a natural leader, but some days he would give anything to just be one of the guys.

OoOoOoOoO

Over the next few days, life drifted towards a new sort of 'normal' for Hogan. With Newkirk's crisis averted and Hogan's own reenergized desire to lead, he decided to take the time to really get to know his men. All his men. With that in mind, he began spending the afternoons visiting the each barracks one-by-one again, so he could get a sense of who these soldiers really were, more than just their names this time. He also started visiting Klink for any little reason he could think of. Klink seemed to be something of a fool, but he was a fool who could mean life or death for the prisoners if he chose, and Hogan knew that developing a good relationship with the Kommandant would be vital not only to the well-being of his men, but also to their operations.

What Hogan didn't find himself doing was spending any time with Newkirk. A week after Newkirk had been given the lifesaving penicillin and subsequently turned the corner, Hogan was becoming more and more comfortable with his new role, but hadn't been able to spend any time getting to know the man who had inadvertently been the catalyst for his change. Despite his improvements, Newkirk was still a sick man and spent most of his time sleeping. Furthermore, even when awake there were always other men around so Hogan hadn't had any real opportunity to talk with him more than just a cursory "how are you feeling" or "do you need anything."

Their first real interaction, in fact, occurred in the wee hours of the morning when Hogan awoke to the sounds of rustling from the bunk below him. He dropped his head over the edge and in the darkness could make out Newkirk struggling to sit, so Hogan jumped down and lightly landed beside the corporal.

"What are you doing, Newkirk? Do you need anything?"

The Englishman stopped moving and shook his head. "No, sir."

Hogan figured he should be pleased that Newkirk could sound properly respectful, but at the same time, perversely wished he didn't sound _quite_ so respectful. Newkirk's tone was the careful one used with a complete stranger of a higher rank. Somehow it seemed to negate all that had transpired in the last few weeks.

"Are you sure?" he murmured lowly, not wanting to wake up the men outside his room. "If you're hungry I've got an apple over here that Shultz brought by for you."

He could barely see Newkirk, but caught a flash of the man's teeth as he smiled, "Shultz is a good…" Newkirk cleared his throat and started again, stiff and cold, "That is, no thank you, sir. I'm sorry I woke you."

Hogan frowned, knowing Newkirk couldn't see him in the dark. He should be happy that Newkirk seemed to have put aside the rudely disrespectful attitude from the cooler, but it frustrated him that he'd made such progress with the rest of the men but hardly any with the one he'd risked his life to save. Hogan didn't know if Newkirk's problem with him stemmed from their first encounter or some other reason. Resolving to eventually solve that riddle, Hogan turned his thoughts back to the here and now.

"Are you warm enough then? Need some help with the chamber pot?"

Hogan barely heard the sigh.

"No sir, I'm fine."

"Newkirk?"

"I said I was fine!...sir."

Hogan smiled in the darkness. Ah yes, _there_ was that testy attitude. He shook his head at himself. Yes, ironically he actually preferred this to the stiffly proper tones, as it somehow seemed a more honest representation of the edgy corporal. Of course, he wouldn't accept outright rudeness or disrespect, but Hogan wanted to get to a place where this man gave him real respect, not just the obligation of military courtesy.

He squatted down beside the bunk and squinted in the dark, trying to get a better sense of what could be going on. Testiness aside, Hogan had heard an underlying tension in Newkirk's voice that sounded more like pain than irritation.

Giving in to his own preference for a more, literally, hands on approach, Hogan reached over and felt Newkirk's forehead, keeping his hand there even when he felt Newkirk jerk in surprise.

"Fever doesn't seem any worse," he said matter-of-factly. "You thirsty?"

He slid his hand to the corporal's shoulder when Newkirk shook his head and said cautiously, "no sir."

Hogan continued, "Okay then. So you're not hungry or thirsty. You don't need the chamber pot. Your fever isn't worse. What else is keeping you up then? Headache?"

This time Newkirk shook his head, but didn't speak.

"I'm not a mind reader," Hogan said mildly. "But I'm going to stay here until you tell me what's keeping you up."

Newkirk jerked his shoulder out from under Hogan's hand, but a swiftly indrawn breath betrayed him.

Leaning closer to try to see better, Hogan frowned. "Hey, I heard that. Something's hurting you. What's going on?"

Hogan heard more rustling before Newkirk blurted out, "I can't sleep. My side 'urts somethin' awful where I've been layin' on it for so long…" He paused to take a deep breath, "…but I can't lay on my stomach without feeling like I can't breathe and I can't lay on me back without that 'urting like the blazes and I..."

Newkirk abruptly stopped talking and Hogan heard him curse under his breath.

"Sorry sir, nevermind that. I'm fine," he said, once more retreating into formality. Then he slipped as he almost begged, "Please go back to sleep. I won't bother you again."

But Hogan wasn't going to have it. Not when he knew what was bothering his stubborn, temporary roommate.

"Let's just get you settled first," he said kindly, reaching up to his bunk and snagging his pillow, dropping it to the floor beside him.

In the darkness he could just see Newkirk shaking his head, "Sir…"

"Enough," Hogan ordered, but kept the tone friendly. "Here." He reached down and carefully pulled the man into a sitting position. Hogan had seen Wilson and the others doing it over the past few days, and he knew how dizzy Newkirk would be. He gently steadied the shaking man against his shoulder, while he grabbed up his pillow and placed it on the bed. He took Newkirk's pillow in addition to the one that had been placed behind Newkirk's back to help keep him on his side and arranged them all until he was satisfied with their placement.

"Hang on. Almost done," he said softly when he heard a stifled moan in his ear and lowered Newkirk back down.

In addition to the pillow for Newkirk's head, one pillow and been placed just barely under a shoulder and another at his hip, allowing Newkirk to lay on his back, but be tipped sideways just enough so his back wasn't touching the bed at the spot of the worst injury, but not so much that he was putting pressure on the same points that he'd been laying on.

Hogan tucked the covers under Newkirk's chin, then grinned with success when the Englishman abandoned his cool formality completely and sighed with heartfelt gratitude as he said, "Oh that's marvelous. Sir, I…" he swallowed, "Thank you."

Hogan allowed himself a smug sense of triumph to have broken through the man's walls for once, but it was quickly drowned out by genuine pleasure at helping his injured comrade. It was that pleasure that colored his tone as he said, "I'm glad it worked. Now you try to get some sleep, okay? And wake me if you need anything else."

Hogan smiled as he heard a big yawn in response followed by a sleepy, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He hopped back up to the top bunk, reaching blindly for his pillow before realizing he'd just given it to Newkirk. Laughing soundlessly at himself, the colonel wrapped his blankets around him and within moments, he too had fallen asleep.

OoOoOoOoO

The colonel woke up just a couple hours later to the usual morning symphony of shouts and banging. He covered his head with his arms for just a moment before grunting in annoyance and tiredly throwing back the covers and dropping to the floor. He _really_ had to figure out a way to get Schultz as his barracks guard. Waking up to the harsh, angry tones of the bullying Sergeant Zimmerman every morning was a lousy way to spend the war.

He paused just long enough to peer over at Newkirk and see that the man was deeply asleep before he threw on his clothes and grabbed his hat. The men were already filing outside when he opened the door to the outer barracks and he quickly joined them in the frigid morning.

"Prisoners of Stalag 13…"

Hogan refused to grimace as the Kommandant puffed up his chest, but couldn't help a small eye roll. It was cold, he was tired, he had the beginnings of a headache due to his interrupted sleep, and he didn't feel like listening to another one of Klink's eternal speeches. And did he mention that he was tired?

"….Diiissss-missssed!"

Hogan blinked. His mind had wandered somewhere around the 10 minute mark and he wondered if it was possible to actually fall asleep with your eyes open and standing up. Shaking himself to unthaw his frozen limbs, he followed the rest of the men to the mess hall, hoping they had some decent coffee for once that would help him wake up.

Half an hour later, feeling more human after a tasteless, but surprisingly filling breakfast, Hogan returned to the barracks, his mood improving even more when he heard the cheery sounds of the men laughing inside.

"…and then he said, 'how many tires do I have to change?"

The men roared in laughter as the punchline to some joke was delivered as Hogan walked in.

Nodding a greeting, the colonel smiled at their general good humor as he walked to his room. He was reflecting on the change in them since he first met them as he entered his room, happy to see Wilson there quietly chatting with a wide awake Newkirk.

"Hey doc, how're things this morning?"

"Pretty good, sir. Pretty good," said Wilson, proud satisfaction evident in his voice. "I think this old scoundrel is going to make it, despite my best efforts."

Hogan grinned. It seemed that good moods were infectious this morning.

"Sorry to hear that," Hogan quipped. "Guess we'll just have to put up with him awhile longer then."

"Yes, sir. Or at least, you won't have to put up with him much longer. Not in here anyways. If he keeps this up, I'd say he might be ready to go back to his own bunk in just a few days. Or that is, one of the lower bunks out there."

Newkirk had fallen silent when the colonel entered, but he was following the conversation closely and Hogan could see a gleam in his eyes that had been missing since he'd fallen so ill. Yes, you'd have to be a blind man to not see just how much better he was doing, not just physically, but mentally as well.

Bringing Newkirk in to the conversation and testing out the thaw from last night, Hogan asked, "So, what do you think, corporal, you about tired of these accommodations? Ready to rejoin the guys out there?"

"Yes, sir," he answered. "Ready to go right now if Joe 'ere would let me." Newkirk's eyes lit up at the thought, but Hogan didn't need to hear Wilson opinion when he heard Newkirk's voice. The Englishman might look a lot better, but the weakness left from his near-death illness was evident.

"Just hold your horses," drawled the medic before Hogan could say anything. "I said a few days. Maybe. And that's only if you do everything you're told. _Everything_. Up to and including drinking whatever we give you. Even if that means LeBeau's broth," he warned.

Newkirk glared at the man. "Not if I can 'elp it."

"Peter…"

"You ever taste that ruddy stuff? I heard 'e uses 'essence of old shoes' to give it that special little flavor."

Hogan laughed out loud, happy that Newkirk was improved enough that his sarcastic wit was returning. Although truthfully, maybe Newkirk hadn't been playing a game when he refused the broth earlier. Hogan had smelt it when LeBeau had brought some in for Newkirk the other day and was rather repulsed by it himself.

Newkirk flicked his gaze at the laughing colonel, but switched it back to Wilson when the medic teased, "Well I've heard that some of the guys are pretty good at making you drink it anyways."

Newkirk shrugged one shoulder, unconcerned. "Maybe, but they all know that payback is 'ell. Not many of them want to risk it. Though I suppose…" He stopped and frowned, looked at the door, then back to Wilson and Hogan in alarm.

"Joe, where's Chappy?" he asked apprehensively. When the medic didn't answer, he asked again, forcefully, "I said, where's Chappy? I 'aven't seen 'im since I woke up. I didn't realize before. 'ow could I not notice? What 'appened to 'im? Chappy's me mate! 'e'd be 'ere if 'e could! If 'e's not, it's 'cause somethin's wrong! Was 'e shot? Is e' dead?"

Both Wilson and Hogan rushed forward to try to settle Newkirk as he became more and more agitated and started to struggle to get up.

"Settle down," ordered Hogan. "He's fine."

Newkirk batted the hands away, resisting their efforts.

"Stop it! You're going to hurt yourself. He's _fine_," Hogan affirmed again.

Maybe it penetrated this time, for Newkirk stopped struggling. But then a surprisingly strong hand gripped Hogan's arm. "You're not just sayin' that? 'e really is okay?"

Gently removing the hand and helping Wilson to make Newkirk comfortable again, Hogan said truthfully, "He got himself into a bit of trouble and earned a spot in the cooler. He might have some bruised knuckles, but that's it."

Looking at Wilson as if to confirm the colonel's story, the tension melted out of Newkirk. "The cooler's a bloody awful place, but Chappy's no stranger to it. 'e'll manage."

Along with the tension, Newkirk's temporary energy also dissipated and he closed his eyes wearily. Then they popped back open with new urgency. "But not for long, right? A few days is all? Any longer than that and your bones start to freeze. Then the cold 'urts so bad you can't even move."

Hogan winced sympathetically at the thought. He knew Newkirk was speaking from long experience, although it didn't seem like he was conscious of any appeal for sympathy for himself. He was foremost worried about his friend.

"I'm going to do what I can to get him out soon. I promise," Hogan said, realizing that he needed to stop thinking about it and do something for those men stuck in the cooler.

"Yeah, you just rest now, so when he does get back, he doesn't kick your backside for working yourself up," Wilson added.

Newkirk looked at Wilson, then Hogan, his expression serious. Apparently seeing what he was looking for, he nodded once and then closed his eyes, drifting off into an exhausted sleep.

OoOoOoOoO

That evening after roll call and before lights out, Hogan sat at his desk, his fingers drumming against the wood. He'd gone to Klink that afternoon to talk to him about the men in the cooler, but hadn't had any luck convincing the Kommandant that they should be let out early. He'd have to come up with some more creative way of getting them out.

A noise disturbed his plotting and he looked over at Newkirk. He had simply moved in his sleep, shifting against the pillows that Hogan had arranged the night before.

Hogan took the quiet of the moment to study Newkirk as he slept. The man was a troubling enigma. Hogan had been encouraged to see Newkirk's deep concern for Chapman. He had even started seriously thinking what kind of role Newkirk might be able to play on his core team. But then, during his continuing meetings with the other men under his command that afternoon, he'd heard some things that concerned him.

Hogan had remembered what Hughes had said about Newkirk's reaction to the young teenager, Phillips, being sent to Stalag 8, but Hogan had chalked up the comments to Hughes' prejudice against Newkirk. Then, this afternoon several of his conversations had included anecdotes about Newkirk. Apparently, with little else to do, the men liked to gossip and the well-known corporal who had returned from the brink of death had been ripe fodder. So Hogan had learned a lot more about the man than he'd expected, some of which had disturbed him. Foremost was confirmation that, yes, Newkirk had been extremely close to Phillips, acting as a surrogate brother, but then simply written him off once the boy had been sent away. It seemed like a terribly callous attitude. Were Newkirk's loyalties that transitory? Loyalty of convenience would never do for any of Hogan's team, nor even one who simply lived in the same barracks with them.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. The headache from the morning had been a nagging nuisance off and on and was returning with a vengeance after a long day.

He'd also heard from Private Walker, the young man whose cake Newkirk had stolen. Needless to say, Walker was no fan of Newkirk's and had plenty of stories about the selfish attitude of the Englishman. Even considering the rather biased source, others had confirmed some of Walker's statements and it seemed that there might be more truth in what Hughes had said than Hogan was comfortable with.

If nothing else, both sides—those who liked Newkirk and those who didn't, there weren't many without an opinion—seemed to agree that Newkirk was an opportunist. That might not necessarily be a bad thing. Someone with good motives who knew how to take advantage of opportunities would be invaluable on sabotage missions. However, someone who cared primarily about number one and used opportunities for their own gain would be trouble with a capital "T."

Hogan had to figure out into which category his English corporal fell, and he was going to have to get the measure of the man sooner rather than later. He had to be a hundred percent convinced of the loyalties of every man on his team and those near enough to be in the know. Living in the same barracks would mean that Newkirk would be privy to whatever shenanigans Hogan's team was part of, even if he didn't participate himself, and that could be dangerous if he used that knowledge to his advantage, perhaps with the Germans to gain special privileges.

No. Hogan shook his head. He'd seen enough of Newkirk's interactions with the men to feel confident that Newkirk wouldn't betray them. And the others weren't all naïve fools either. The concern and loyalty they felt for him couldn't be bought with charm and quick wits. He had to be the real deal for them to care for him the way they did.

The colonel continued his reflections, his hands steepled in front of him until a bang on the barracks door signaled lights out.

OoOoOoOoO


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Despite his genuine interest in the puzzle that was Newkirk, Hogan didn't spend any more time trying to decipher the young Englishman's character the next day. Instead, when Hogan awoke, he decided to put that mystery aside and focus on a more pressing issue—assembling his team. Now that he had one mission under his belt and had tasted the sweetness of thumbing his nose at the Germans right in their own backyard, he was ready to put his operation into full swing.

At the top of his list was finding the right men.

After breakfast when the men had hustled back into the barracks, slapping their arms and stomping to force some feeling back in their frozen limbs, Hogan called everyone to the table.

"Men, if you'd gather around for a minute, I have something to talk to you about."

As the men moved to join him, Hogan marveled at his own feelings. It wasn't that long ago he'd been hating life and desperate to escape, but now he was not only committed to staying, but _excited_ about it—excited about working with these men and doing something no one else had done before. Life sure had a funny way of dealing you a wild card when you least expected.

Once the men of Barracks 2 were gathered, minus those still in the cooler and Newkirk, of course, Hogan spoke, "Not too long ago you participated in a mission—a mission to save the life of one of your comrades—and every one of you played a vital role in pulling it off."

Hogan couldn't help but flick his gaze over to Mitchell, hovering in the background uncertainly. Yes, although unplanned, even Mitchell had played a part in keeping the Germans distracted. As Mitchell briefly met Hogan's eye and then looked sharply away, Hogan wondered if he could find some use for the man. Without Hughes' and Wells' influence, Mitchell was behaving and Hogan found himself hoping the man could be redeemed.

Filing that thought away for later, Hogan continued.

"The success of the mission proved that we can do more. I'm not talking about escaping, but something better—a unique capability we can give our side. As you know, we're located in the heart of Germany, surrounded by the German war machine—factories, bases, major supply routes. With the kind of teamwork you men displayed and some good old fashioned hard work, we can do a lot to shorten the war by attacking them right here…right in their back yard."

Hogan watched them the men exchanging confused but interested looks. He'd given them more questions than answers, but it was obvious there wasn't a single one in this bunch who wasn't game to do their part.

"What I propose is to set up a sabotage and rescue unit from right inside this camp, working with both London and the Underground. For now, we'll use Schnitzer to get us in and out of camp, but eventually we'll build a system of permanent tunnels so we can come and go on our schedule." He paused, debating how much he should tell them before deciding to trust them all. "Don't worry, this isn't some harebrained idea of mine. This is part of a mission profile assigned me in case I ever found myself a POW. We'll have London's full backing, to include supplies, intel, and orders."

He grinned as he could feel the excitement building in the room. He wished he didn't have to dampen their enthusiasm, but needed to be clear of the risks.

"I'll need everyone's participation—I promise there'll be work for all. But not everyone needs to do the most dangerous work. A smaller group will form the core of the team and these men will be the ones on the front lines, performing the missions, in the most danger. Let's not fool ourselves, we're talking about spying and if caught, the Germans aren't going to throw you into some swank POW camp—they're going to put you in front of a firing squad and that's _after_ the Gestapo is done with you."

Some of the eager expressions faded when the reality of Hogan's words sunk in. It was one thing to be a regular soldier…quite another to work behind enemy lines, knowing that getting caught would not only mean death, but almost surely torture as well.

Hogan waited a moment to let the men digest his words. When he saw their resolve once more hardening, he continued.

"For the 'at home' group, I'll need someone to not only work a radio, but build and repair it as well. Engineering and carpentry to build and shore up tunnels. Photography. Forging official documents. German language skills." Hogan grinned, "And of course an ability to create mayhem when we need distractions. Certain missions will need additional skills, but let's start with these."

When a couple of hands went up, Hogan smiled and said, "Hold your horses…let me finish. For the most active members, my command team, I need different skills. Recon. Crack shots and nerves of steel. Men who will be comfortable getting up close with the enemy without giving themselves away. Men who can think on their feet and find solutions where there are none. It won't be easy and I can't overemphasize that it'll be dangerous…but I promise you'll be part of something that will help shorten the war."

He paused as he looked over the men. They were looking at him with more measured consideration. Good. He didn't want anyone rashly volunteering without knowing what they would be facing.

He decided it was time to ask for volunteers when LeBeau anticipated him.

"I'll do it, mon colonel," the Frenchman said.

"Yes?" Hogan prompted.

"I want to be part of the team. Your command team. I don't how to do those things you're looking for," LeBeau shrugged, a little embarrassed, "but I can learn. And I do other things. I can take care of the dogs. I am a good tailor. I am strong and can dig many tunnels. And…I don't know if it will help, but I worked in a restaurant as a chef before the war." He took a deep breath. "Colonel, I will do whatever you want to fight the filthy bosche," he added determinedly.

Hogan smiled. He was hoping the Frenchman would volunteer. There was strength and resolve in the man that Hogan respected, and he was sure LeBeau would be a great asset to his team, whatever his skills.

"Alright. Good to have you aboard."

LeBeau nodded happily.

"I don't know about your core team, sir," said Corporal Porter, a stocky, middle-aged man with a solemn face. "But I grew up in West Virginia in a coal mining town. I'm no professional engineer, but I reckon I've shored up more mines than anyone else this side of the Rhine. I can build you those tunnels you need."

Hogan's eyebrows raised. Just goes to show that you never knew what kind of talent you had until you looked for it.

"That's great! Porter, you're the tunnel boss. Tell me what you need and I'll find a way to get it."

"I was a radioman, sir," volunteered Kinch next. "They taught us to repair radios as well as use them. If I can get the parts, I can work your radios." He paused, then added almost wryly, "I have a feeling I wouldn't be able to blend in much outside the wire..." There were some chuckles from the men, "…but I'd like to be in the thick of things any way I can. I, uh, I also understand a little bit of German," he added at the end.

Hogan grinned. He'd been determined to have Kinch on his team, and was glad the man volunteered before Hogan had to recruit him.

"Don't worry, we'll find plenty for you to do," he said.

"I'm your man for recon," announced Sgt Olsen next.

Olsen was one of the few men that Hogan and come to learn was a true troublemaker, but since a willingness to break the rules was exactly what Hogan needed, he accepted the man's undisciplined behaviors—to a certain point.

"Happy to have you aboard, Olson. But recon? Thought you were an air gunner."

Olsen waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, sir. But I grew up in the inner city and…" he grinned as he shrugged, "…and let's just say I learned how to blend into a crowd, move without making a sound, that sort of thing." His face became serious as he concluded, "If you need someone who's not afraid to get cozy with the enemy and not be detected, I'm your man."

Hogan nodded, "Alright then, recon it is." Then he warned with a grin, "But not too cozy with the frauleins."

At the thought of women, Hogan's serious group of men devolved into a gaggle of adolescent boys in a blink.

"No fraulein would want to get cozy with you, Olsen. She needs a real man."

"What, like you?"

"Why not?"

"You think German girls are like the ones back home?"

"I know what I'd like to do with some of them…I think I'd find me a pair of twins and…"

Hogan's piercing whistle broke through the chatter.

When the men fell silent, he smiled, "Talk about girls on your own time. Right now I still need volunteers."

"I'll help."

Every head in the room turned at the quietly spoken words. Even Hogan couldn't prevent the briefest look of shock on his face…the voice was Mitchell's.

Hogan made an instant decision, then cleared his throat and said, "Alright. And what is it you plan to bring to the team?"

"Photography?" Mitchell said, as if questioning it himself.

"Inside or outside the wire," Hogan questioned, needing to make sure what Mitchell was offering.

Mitchell looked like he wished he'd never spoken up, but then said, "My father owned a photography studio and I, uh, helped him over the years. Did mostly family portraits, so I could help with forged documents. And I know how to develop film. I figure it's more inside stuff, but I could…I could go outside the wire if you needed me to."

Hogan blinked, trying to reconcile the large, bullying man with an image of someone patiently getting children to sit still and "say cheese." Not quite seeing it but happy to have a chance to rehabilitate the man thrown in his lap, he nodded. "Okay, then. Welcome aboard.

Hogan looked at the rest of the men, who were still regarding Mitchell with surprise. When none of them spoke up to add their name to his roster, he said, "Well, that's enough for now. We'll need to add more later, but we've got enough to start planning. Okay, LeBeau, Porter, Kinch, Olsen, and Mitchell, join me at the table. As for the rest of you…" Hogan grinned at them, "…as soon as possible we're going to be digging some tunnels, so I want you to start thinking on how to hide the dirt."

With that, he sat down with and began the first planning session with his new team. After a couple of minutes of rapid-fire ideas, Hogan pulled out the little notebook he kept in his shirt pocket and started making lists of needed supplies and writing down notes on the men's ideas.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It was a very satisfied colonel who entered his room a couple hours later, after having warned all the men not to talk with anyone outside the barracks about what they'd discussed. Hogan knew he'd eventually bring in some of the other men in camp, but he wanted to vet them one by one, so for now their operation would be need to know.

He stopped short when he saw Newkirk, who he'd thought was asleep, sitting propped up by pillows against the bunk's headboard.

"Newkirk! How're you feeling? You're looking a lot better."

Newkirk gave him a tentative smile.

"Better, sir. Thank you."

Hogan smiled as he crossed to the bunk. Newkirk's voice, though it still sounded weak, was getting stronger. Between hearing that and his invigorating discussion with the new team, Hogan was feeling great.

He touched the back of his hand to Newkirk's forehead, smirking as the Englishman drew back into the pillow. The colonel realized that Newkirk had been unconscious all the times he'd been taking care of him before, and probably wasn't aware that Hogan had done his own share of checking for fever over the past few days.

Not wanting to embarrass the man, he merely said, "You seem cooler."

Newkirk nodded as he yawned.

Hogan tilted his head. "You look like you could use a nap, though. Want me to help you lay back down?"

The look of disgust on Newkirk's face as he grumbled, 'all I ruddy do is sleep,' made Hogan want to laugh, but swallowed it, not wanting to push his luck with the testy corporal.

Not waiting for agreement, Hogan took matters into his own hands by carefully supporting Newkirk while he flattened the pillows. When Hogan laid the man down on them, he knew he'd done the right thing as Newkirk's eyes closed automatically and within seconds he was asleep.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The next two days were ones of purpose and accomplishment for Hogan. With a new mission in life and the feeling of once more belonging, he was back to his old self. Looking back, it was hard for him to recognize the depressed, useless creature he'd been just a short while before. He was ashamed of that man, but was certain that, having experienced it once, he knew enough about himself that he'd never go down that rabbit hole again.

Chief among his accomplishments was the progress on his operation. He had notes with requests ready to slip to Schnitzer next time he was around, the early beginnings of a tunnel already showing promise, and had even convinced the Kommandant that the prisoners would be happy to build an infirmary for the camp, so they were going to be supplied with building materials. And if a few beams happened to disappear to shore up tunnels…

Yes, everything was progressing as he'd hoped. Even Newkirk was continuing to mend and finally the day came when Wilson announced he was well enough to return to the main barracks. Hogan was happy to think he'd finally get his room to himself, but was a bit piqued that he still hadn't managed to have a heart-to-heart with his temporary roommate. Through either bad luck or a determined effort on Newkirk's part not to talk, the two of them had never had the opportunity.

Either way, it was with much fanfare that Wilson helped Newkirk out of Hogan's room. A short argument arose when Wilson wanted to plunk Newkirk back into a bunk, but the corporal was insistent that he could sit at the table for awhile.

"Now you're a good chap, doc, but if you think I'm goin' to let you put me back in a bunk not two minutes after I finally got out o' one, you're crackers," snarked Newkirk. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the weak voice and the way he was leaning heavily on Wilson, but nonetheless Hogan smiled at the Englishman's spirit.

"Doc?" Hogan questioned, leaving it up to Wilson, but indicating with his tone that he would support Newkirk's desire to be out of bed if Wilson agreed.

Wilson, however shook his head. "Colonel, the man's been on his back for days. Frankly I'm surprised he hasn't fainted on me already."

"Fainted!" sputtered Newkirk, his voice stronger with outrage. "What kind of a wiltin' lily do you think I am?"

He jerked his arm out of Wilson's grasp and would have fallen except for the support of his friends who reached out to grab him.

Making the question of putting Newkirk back to bed moot, the men practically carried him over to the table and plunked him down onto the bench.

"Ta mates," said a grateful Newkirk. "Didn't fancy a bit of a kip just now, but old nanny over there doesn't agree."

The 'nanny' protested, "Colonel! He shouldn't be up. The deal was that he could walk from your room to his bunk. Period."

Hogan regarded the group calmly. Newkirk was sitting at the table, looking pale from the exertion of the short walk, but the men surrounding him would make sure no harm came to him. More importantly, though, the look of satisfaction on Newkirk's face as well as the happiness on the men's was palpable. Hogan didn't want to undermine the doc's authority, but he didn't think it would hurt anything if Newkirk was allowed to stay up a short time.

"Doc, do you think he could manage a few minutes at the table? Since he's already sitting down, he might as well catch his breath before he has to walk to his bunk."

Wilson took a deep breath and for a moment Hogan feared the medic would argue and ruin the happy mood, but then Wilson seemed to cave with good grace. "Alright, sir. I guess that would be okay," he said with a small scowl. Then he pointed his finger at Newkirk and added, "But just a few minutes." Then he included all the rest. "And I expect the rest of you to behave and let him sleep once he's back in his bunk, you hear?"

The men happily accepted Wilson's conditions and then promptly turned to Newkirk, filling him in on what had been happening in camp lately. They'd told him most of the same stories while visiting him in the colonel's room, but with the whole group chiming in, the stories began to morph into ridiculous adventures that soon had all the men laughing.

Hogan beckoned Wilson over.

"How is he really doc? Is he up to being out of bed like this? I would have backed you if you'd pushed it."

Wilson grinned. "I know, sir. Mostly I was just putting on a show for the guys. If I'd let him stay up without a fuss, they would'a tried to overdo it. This way they think they got one over on me, but'll make sure he gets to bed when I say."

"Nicely played," Hogan said with a smile. Looking at the happy men around the table, he added, "I admit it's good to see him up."

Wilson nodded happily, the look in his eye expressing his own satisfaction at having saved the young Englishman.

About ten minutes later, five minutes longer than Hogan thought Wilson would wait, the medic strode over to the group and said, "Alright fellas, that's it. Come on, old son, time for you to take it easy for awhile."

Hogan wondered if anyone would object, but when Newkirk himself gave in without a fuss, the rest cheerfully helped him over to Carter's bunk and settled him down.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

With Newkirk resting, Hogan took the opportunity to call his team together again, gathering them in his office for more discussions. He'd asked everyone to keep the Englishman out of the loop for now, so this was the first time he'd been able to use his office to gather his team. It wasn't that he didn't trust Newkirk…well, maybe there was a bit of a lingering doubt in that area until he had had his long talk with the man…but mostly the colonel wanted Newkirk to rest and didn't want to take the chance of anything distracting him from getting better.

Looking at his team with satisfaction, Hogan said, "Okay, let's start with reports. Porter, how is the tunnel coming?"

A couple hours later, Hogan, engrossed in discussion with his team, was startled when a knock on the door interrupted a heated debate between Porter and Olson on where dirt from the tunnel could be hidden.

"Come."

Carter poked his head in. "Roll call's in about ten minutes, colonel. And it looks like Sgt Zimmerman's headed this way. I thought you should know."

Nodding once, Hogan snapped into action. He dismissed the men with, "Clear out. Act casual," before sweeping the small pile of notes into a folder and tucking them under a loose floorboard just in time for the outer door to fly open. He hadn't had time to see if his team had made themselves look inconspicuous, so all he could do was hold his breath and hope as he joined them in the outer room.

It didn't take long for Zimmerman to get to his point. Pointing at Newkirk, he barked out something in German. When faced with a sea of blank stares, the German soldier snorted in disgust and then tried again, slowly, miming some of his comments.

Hogan couldn't help an inadvertent, "Hey!" when he got what the man was indicating. Now that Newkirk was back in the main barracks, he was expected to stand for roll call.

The colonel shook his head and moved towards the guard. "No, he's still sick. He has to stay in bed," he protested.

Hogan didn't know if Zimmerman understood any English, but it didn't appear to matter. The guard repeated his comment to the colonel while pointing his finger at Newkirk, then turned and walked out the door, leaving the prisoners silent and angry.

"I'll talk to the kommandant," said Hogan, grabbing his coat. He was halfway out the door when a commotion inside made him turn around.

"Corporal, what are you doing?" he asked in exasperation when he saw the man trying to push himself up. "Lay back down. Look, I'll get Klink to let you skip roll call for a few more days."

"Doesn't matter," said Newkirk. "It'd be good to get back to normal, even if it means roll calls."

Newkirk spoke as if in response to Hogan, but in truth he was looking at his friends as he spoke.

"Not a chance. You're staying," said Hogan, not caring who Newkirk thought he was talking to. Outside was a light drizzle of freezing rain and there was no way he'd allow a man who'd only recently been on death's door stand out in that nasty weather. If he thought Newkirk would be grateful, however, he was dead wrong.

Now sitting on the edge of the bunk, the English corporal finally looked at Hogan. Or to be more accurate, he glared at the colonel.

"Beggin' your pardon, _sir_, but you 'aven't been 'ere very long, 'ave you? It doesn't matter if you get Klink on your side, I'm goin' to roll call."

Hogan was caught off guard by Newkirk's tone, not to mention his outright defiance. The Englishman hadn't exactly been friendly with Hogan, but he hadn't been ugly either. Where on earth was the hostility coming from? What had Hogan missed? Irritated at the reminder that Newkirk was still an unknown, Hogan responded firmly, "No you're not. Back in the bunk, corporal. That's an order." If nothing else, he couldn't let the corporal undermine his authority.

The room grew quiet at the colonel's tone and many eyes followed him as he grabbed his jacket and left without another word to talk to Klink.

Hogan was halfway to the Kommandant's office when he realized he hadn't waited to see if Newkirk had obeyed his order. Hoping he wasn't going to have to deal with the fallout of disciplining a sick man, Hogan shrugged and continued. He'd cross that bridge if he had to.

With roll call only minutes away, unfortunately Hogan didn't have any time to flirt with the beautiful Helga, so instead he gave her an appreciative smile, then knocked on Klink's door, entering without waiting for the Kommandant to respond.

He immediately started on the offense. "Colonel, I protest! Your guard is making Corporal Newkirk, a very sick man, stand roll call. He can't make it across the room and now he's supposed to be outside in this weather. The Geneva Conventions prohibit cruel and unusual punishment and I…"

"Hogannnn, what is the meaning of this," interrupted Klink, standing up and looking at the senior prisoner in shock. Apparently he wasn't used to confrontations from the senior POW, causing Hogan to fleetingly wonder how Hughes would have handled this. Never mind. Hughes wouldn't have bothered.

Immediately seeing a softer approach would be the better way to go for now, Hogan changed his tone and said, "Kommandant, we count on you to take care of us and right now Corporal Newkirk needs you. He was released to his own bunk today, but I'm sure that doesn't mean you want him to be out in this weather. Now Zimmerman, your guard…"

Finally seeming to catch on to what Hogan was saying, Klink cut in, "Colonel Hogan, Newkirk is a known troublemaker and I've had my suspicions he would be back to his old tricks as soon as he was well again. If Sgt Zimmerman thinks Newkirk is taking advantage of my…"

The Kommandant's further point was broken off by a sharp report from a guard who poked his head through the open door.

Klink turned to Hogan. "Hmpf. It's too late to discuss this. The men are assembled for roll call. You'd best join them."

Hogan glanced at his watch. Already? So much for Carter's ten minutes.

"But Kommandant…"

"Dis-misssed."

Hogan scowled. And so much for getting Klink to help. If he'd had more time, he knew he'd have been able to talk him around. But with nothing to do but follow the German colonel as he brushed past, Hogan hurried outside.

As soon as Hogan looked towards Barracks 2, his jaw tightened. There was Newkirk, standing in his assigned spot right next to Hogan's. The colonel joined his men in formation, but not before sending the disobedient corporal a look that promised a later reckoning.

Hogan didn't pay any attention to Klink's usual speech as he stood in the freezing drizzle, getting more and more angry as he considered the English corporal standing next to him. What was he going to do with Newkirk? He'd been trying to look out for the man, but not only had Newkirk outright disregarded an order, but he'd done it front of the rest of the men. Even if Newkirk had a good reason, which Hogan doubted, he couldn't let this slide. Fuming silently, Hogan impatiently waited to be dismissed.

Dammit! He _knew_ it! From the corner of his eye, he saw Newkirk start to sway. Breaking ranks, he and a couple of the men grabbed the Englishman before he could fall.

Gently lowering him to the ground, the men crowded around Newkirk, causing a commotion that instantly brought over Klink.

"Hogan…"

Hogan turned, angry. "Kommandant, I told you Newkirk wasn't ready for roll call yet. I hope this hasn't set his recovery back too far."

Klink leaned in to study Newkirk, who couldn't seem to keep his eyes above half mast. Apparently satisfied that Newkirk wasn't trying to pull a fast one, the German colonel said to Hogan, "Get him back inside. He's excused from roll calls for another week."

At least half a dozen men, not to mention Hogan, stared at the Kommandant, who abruptly turned and strode off. Klink wasn't exactly known for making snap decisions like that, let alone good ones.

Shaking his head, Hogan ordered, "You heard the man, get him inside."

Hogan followed them back into the barracks and as the men were helping Newkirk get out of his coat, the door banged open.

Wilson flew in breathlessly. "What's going on? I heard…"

He stopped talking when he saw his patient, barely conscious. He sent a betrayed look at the colonel before hurrying over to assist those trying to get Newkirk back to bed.

Once the English corporal was settled, Wilson approached the colonel.

"Sir, I don't understand. Why did you let him up? You knew he wasn't ready."

The words could have been accusing and disrespectful, but Wilson was more upset and bewildered than angry.

"I ordered Newkirk to stay in bed," Hogan said, irritated not with Wilson, but with the whole situation. "Then when I was clearing it with Klink, he decided to fall in anyway. I haven't heard any good explanation why."

Wilson glanced at the bunk then turned back to Hogan with a frown. "Yes, sir. Well, let's hope this doesn't set him back."

Hogan smirked to hear his own words to Klink. Then his smile turned to a grimace.

"Well, did it? Set him back? Is he alright?" If Newkirk was up for it, ill or not Hogan needed to nip that disobedient streak in the bud.

Wilson squinted at the bunk again, thinking before answering. "Well, he should be. I think he just wasn't ready to be up and overtaxed himself. He needs to rest, then we'll see soon enough if any damage was done."

Hogan nodded. Fine. He'd wait for now to chew out Newkirk, but unless the man took a real turn for the worse, tomorrow he was going to enlighten the corporal once and for all!

oOoOo


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The rest of evening was uneventful and quiet. As Hogan had known, Newkirk wasn't ready to stand roll call, and that limited exertion had left him wiped out and sleeping through to the next morning. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, the others spent the evening taking turns working on their tunnel. They'd chosen to place it under one of the bunks, where a couple of the men had started a tunnel months earlier. They'd previously only managed a just under a foot, so it wasn't much of a head start, but with the nearly frozen ground, every little bit helped.

Several of the men kept watch while the others used whatever they could to continue scraping away the dirt, inch by inch. Since they had no where to put the dirt yet, they were limited as to how much they could do regardless. They did their best by flinging the dirt out Hogan's window, which opened up between two barracks, but had to be careful not to create any kind of pile or obvious look of fresh dirt, so after a couple of hours they had to call it quits for the night and eventually all tumbled into their own bunks.

Early the next morning as Hogan was getting dressed—he was glad for once he'd woken himself up before being jolted out of sleep by Zimmerman's shouting—he heard a quiet 'thump' from the other room. Poking his head out the door, he was surprised to see all of the men already up and getting ready for roll call.

A couple of the men smiled when they saw him and put fingers to their lips, gesturing to Carter's and Newkirk's bunkbed. Walking over to see what was up, he understood when he saw Newkirk still fast asleep. For a moment he was reminded of day after Newkirk's return from cooler and he'd come out to find the men up, quietly moving about so as not to wake their sleeping friend. This time was very different, though. Instead of looking ill, Newkirk was laying on his stomach, sprawled in the most relaxed sleep Hogan had seen from anyone in the camp. The Englishman's face was turned toward the room and on it was a slight smile. Hogan could tell it was a deep, healing sleep and understood now why the men were making such and effort to be quiet.

Hogan nodded and went back to his room to finish getting ready himself. He was somewhat piqued to realize his anger from yesterday had entirely dissipated. Yesterday he'd been ready to rip off Newkirk's head for blatant disobedience—now he simply saw it as an issue he'd have to address and could approach it more rationally. He knew it was better this way, but part of him would have enjoyed venting his anger on the frustrating man.

Hogan quickly shaved and pulled on his jacket then joined the others quietly waiting for Zimmerman, so when the German guard flung open the door, the group was already in line and started to quietly file past him, not waiting for him to say anything. Zimmerman stood by the door, eyeing them all suspiciously as if suspecting some kind of mischief from the curiously obedient prisoners.

Hogan took up the rear of the little procession and exited the barracks into the cold morning, congratulating himself and the men on their success in keeping Zimmerman from making his awful morning racket. His satisfaction disappeared, however, when Zimmerman entered the barracks the second Hogan was out. Motioning for the men to go ahead into formation, Hogan did a u-turn and marched back into the barracks behind the guard. He wasn't about to leave Zimmerman alone with his sleeping man.

"We're all outside," Hogan said quietly, knowing better, but still hoping Zimmerman would simply leave.

Instead, Zimmerman looked coldly triumphant in his direction and went straight to Newkirk's bunk. Before Hogan could say or do anything, the guard lifted his rifle and brought the butt down on the bedpost just inches from Newkirk's head as he bellowed the words Hogan could now translate in his sleep to mean "Roll call! Get out! Hurry!"

To say the English corporal was badly startled would be an understatement. He must have jumped a foot as he flailed and shoved himself to the back of the bunk, confused fright clear on his face as his brain tried to wake up enough to process what was going on. Hogan could see him trying to put his game face on, but he'd been deeply asleep and was clearly shaken. It didn't help that Zimmerman banged again on the bunk, shouting.

Hogan stormed over, aching to grab the guard and yank him away, but didn't really feel like getting shot right now. Still, he slid between Zimmerman and the bunk, shielding Newkirk as well as he could.

"Get away from him,' Hogan said coldly. "He has permission to be here."

Zimmerman sneered. "Raus!"

"I'm not leaving until you go first," Hogan said firmly, his eyes narrowing. He figured defying a guard put him on thin ice, but he didn't trust the man.

Zimmerman leaned into Hogan's face and repeated himself nastily. "Raus!"

The tension between the two men could be cut with knife. Hogan knew he could be moments away from serious trouble, but didn't budge.

"It's alright colonel." An unexpected voice interrupted the staring contest between the two enemies. "e's just trying to scare me. 'e's not gonna do anything. 'e was checking that I was still 'ere. Really. Just go." When Newkirk's voice turned to pleading, Hogan allowed his stare to break away from Zimmerman's and he glanced at his corporal. Newkirk looked scared…for him?

Turning back to the guard, Hogan considered. Zimmerman was now smiling, but it was about as pleasant as the toothy smile of a shark eyeing a tasty snack.

Hogan answered it with a glare, keeping his eyes on Zimmerman as he responded to Newkirk, "I don't trust him."

"Look. It's time for roll call. Please," Newkirk urged before switching to German and urgently saying something to the guard, gesturing outside. All Hogan understood was the word for "roll call," but assumed Newkirk was passing on the same message to the guard. Hogan filed away the confirmation that Newkirk did indeed speak German, but kept his focus on the present, not looking away from Zimmerman.

Another guard stuck his head in the open door and said something hurriedly to Zimmerman. Hogan guessed it was a warning that roll call was starting, for Zimmerman nodded and responded, then started for the door, gesturing that Hogan was to follow. The German stopped at the door and the two may have begun a little Laurel and Hardy routine of gesturing for the other to go first when Newkirk pleaded, "colonel, go!" and both finally left at the same time, Hogan firmly closing the door behind him.

After roll call, several of the men, including Hogan, returned to the barracks rather than going straight to breakfast. All was quiet inside. Newkirk was asleep again or, Hogan thought, possibly pretending to be asleep. Roll call had lasted about 20 minutes, not much time for someone to fall back asleep considering the adrenaline rush from earlier. But the corporal was breathing steadily, turned away from everyone and curled up against the wall. The relaxed, contented sprawl from the morning was gone, but he seemed safe enough, so they all, minus LeBeau who volunteered to stay behind, trooped off to breakfast.

Hogan took a couple of hours after breakfast to continue his visits to the other barracks, getting to know more of his men and making sure there weren't any problems or concerns he needed to be aware of. He heard the usual complaints—not enough blankets or firewood, the need for gloves and hats, requests for better food, and so on. The sabotage and rescue mission was always on his mind, but he didn't forget his primary role was leading these men…ALL of these men…and that meant making sure they were treated well by their German captors. He compiled the list of issues he would work on with Klink and eventually made his way back home to Barracks 2.

The warmth of the room greeted him when he entered; even though meager it was a welcome relief from the biting cold outside. Hogan greeted the men as he walked to his room, seeing a now-familiar scene of men playing cards, reading books…anything to prevent boredom and pass the time. He hoped once their unit was up and running that boredom would be a thing of the past, but for now the men had little to do to occupy their time. Maybe it would be a good time to get started on that infirmary that Klink had promised they could build. It would be hard work, but would provide a welcome distraction for the bored men, not to mention a good source of support beams for their tunnel and an excuse for piles of dirt. Deciding to tackle that with the Kommandant within the next few days, Hogan took off his coat and accepted a hot cup of coffee that LeBeau miraculously placed in his hands.

Hogan looked over at Newkirk. He still needed to speak to the man about yesterday's disobedience over roll call. His attitude towards the corporal was a lot more mellow after this morning's incident with Zimmerman, but Hogan had to ensure Newkirk understood that military protocol was still in force and he wouldn't tolerate any of his men picking and choosing what orders to follow. Newkirk was still dozing, however, bringing a frown of concern to Hogan's face.

"He was up earlier," offered Kinch when he saw the look. "LeBeau gave him some breakfast then he went back to bed. Seemed a bit out of sorts, but otherwise fine."

Hogan knew firsthand that being woken by an enemy shouting in your ear wasn't the best way to start the day, so accepted Newkirk's grumpiness as a reaction to earlier and dismissed his concerns.

With everything quiet and no real desire to visit anyone else if it meant going back outside, Hogan grabbed one of the books making the rounds and retreated to his room for a chance to relax for awhile.

oOoOoOo

Sometime later Hogan got to a good stopping point in his book and stretched. It had been a nice diversion, losing himself in a mystery novel, but he smelled coffee brewing and decided that visiting with the men for a bit would be pleasant.

His door hadn't been closed, so there was no creaking to signal his arrival, making it possible for him to observe the men for a moment without them noticing. The first thing he saw was that Newkirk was up and sitting at the table with Carter and the kid Hogan had met seemingly a lifetime ago when he'd caught him, LeBeau, and Chapman trying to give Schultz some things to bring to Newkirk in the cooler. What was his name again? Ah yes. Collins. Hogan hadn't visited his barracks yet, but had liked what he'd seen of the young man that first day. Leaning against the doorframe, Hogan just watched.

Collins was holding a deck of cards, probably the new one that Hogan had witnessed the men carefully wrapping before Christmas. Collins was holding them out to Newkirk, saying something quietly that Hogan couldn't quite hear.

Newkirk shrugged and took the cards and began to slowly shuffle them. Once. Twice.

Hogan was relieved that Newkirk's trip outside didn't seem to have affected his recovery after all. If anything, Newkirk was looking far better than Hogan had seen him since he came through door after his cooler stint, blue with cold and hiding a handful of injuries.

It was probably a good time for that talk. Things were quiet and Newkirk seemed well enough, but Hogan didn't move just yet. He was feeling relaxed and was content for the moment to lean against door, observing.

Hogan caught bits of the quiet conversation, Collins, joined by O'Brien were encouraging Newkirk to show them a card trick while Carter watched on eagerly. Newkirk agreed with a grin and was partway through shuffling the cards again when they flew out of his grasp and ended up spread across table and on the floor. Collins and O'Brien froze, but Carter leapt forward, picking up the cards from the floor and pulling the rest into a pile.

"Gosh, you sure made a mess. Here you go. You can try again," Carter said cheerfully. "Don't worry if you drop them, I'll pick them up. That always happens to me when I do card tricks too."

Collins looked at Carter in alarm. Newkirk had ducked his head, so Hogan couldn't see his expression, but he assumed from Collins' reaction that Newkirk wasn't happy.

"Pete…"

Collins' quiet voice on top of Carter's boisterous offer drew the attention of some of the others, who were distracted from what they were doing and looked over to the four men at the table.

Newkirk raised his head and grimaced, slowly shoving the cards away from him before dropping his shoulders in a slump and leaning forward on his elbows. He shook his head. "I'm not trying again."

Collins shot a warning glance at Carter and said with forced cheer, "Don't worry, mate. How 'bout I shuffle these up and we can do a nice game of gin?"

Newkirk frowned. "Don't bother. I'm not playing."

"Peter Newkirk turning down a card game? Come on. I'll wager a chocolate bar that you haven't lost your winning touch at cards."

Newkirk shook his head and mumbled something.

"What?"

Louder, with a touch of asperity, Newkirk repeated, "I'm not playing! I…I can't hold the cards properly."

Not to be thwarted, Collins dealt cards out to the four of them. "Don't worry about it. I know you…you don't need to see them to remember your cards. Just look at them and leave them on the table."

"I said no."

Collins ignored Newkirk's declaration, picking up his cards and putting them in order and gesturing for Carter and O'Brien to do the same.

"Come on. You have to look at them," he told Newkirk, picking up the small stack and handing it to his friend.

Hogan could have told Collins that he was pushing too hard. His behavior, though well-meaning, would have annoyed the most patient of men, which Newkirk wasn't.

Predictably, Newkirk reacted. Slapping the cards out of Collins' hand, he said "I said I don't want to play. I can't use me 'ands!" His voice cracked a bit at the end, causing Hogan to frown. Newkirk wasn't angry as much as genuinely upset.

Finally getting the hint, Collins raised his hands in surrender and moved away from the table, O'Brien following him.

"What's wrong with them, mon ami?" asked LeBeau, coming over to him. "Let me see."

Newkirk was still glaring, but reluctantly allowed LeBeau to inspect his hands.

Hogan got a good look at them himself from his vantage point as LeBeau gently turned them this way and that. They were still chapped, cracked, with thin lines of blood in a few places. They'd been in bad shape after his cooler stay and, even after all his time out of it, the damp cold winter air hadn't allowed them to properly heal. They were still so rough that Hogan could see where the skin split from Newkirk making a fist. It was painful just to see him try to move them. With the previous focus on Newkirk's serious health problems, the state of his hands had been a minor issue. Hogan had seen Wilson rubbing in a bit of balm on them a couple times, but it clearly hadn't done a very impressive job. Now that Newkirk was feeling better, Hogan guessed his inability to use his hands properly would become a larger problem.

He was about to move closer when Carter, who had grabbed something from his locker rejoined the two corporals at the table.

"Uhm, You should try this. My sister sent it to me. I didn't know you needed any, or I woulda said something earlier."

Both Newkirk and LeBeau eyed the jar before the small Frenchman opened it, drawing back instantly. Inside was a thick gel, but the pungent smell made Hogan's eyes water even from across the room.

Newkirk scowled. "You having a go at me?"

Carter appeared honestly shocked as he stammered, "No. It works great. Really."

Newkirk looked at Carter suspiciously. "You telling me to put that on my 'ands? With that ruddy smell?"

Carter nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah. I guess it does smell a little, but it works great. Honest. It's an old family recipe. My mom always uses it in the winter. Just try it."

Newkirk warily sniffed it, drawing back with a cough.

"Here, let me do it," Carter offered as he took the jar from LeBeau. "My uncle has a farm and he swears by it."

Newkirk looked at the others as if waiting for them to admit that the smelly goo was a joke. Finally, when he couldn't detect anything suspicious, he nodded warily.

Carter gave him a friendly smile and scooped out a bit. Carefully he started rubbing it into Newkirk's right hand. He was slow and methodical, taking several minutes to work the lotion in with an almost feather-light touch. When he was done, he stepped back proudly.

"Now try moving it," he encouraged.

Newkirk wiggled his fingers, then slowly formed a fist. He opened and closed his hand a couple more times, his eyes wide in surprise. Smiling in wonder, he announced, "Andrew, this feels marvelous."

Ducking his head shyly, Carter offered, "I can to the other one too if you give me your hand."

Hogan was amused to see no hesitation this time as Newkirk promptly held out his left hand, not caring a whit about the smell. Carter performed an equally careful job of rubbing the soothing balm into the chapped skin, leaving Newkirk grinning in delight as he slowly flexed his hands.

When he was done, Carter screwed the lid back on the jar and set it on the table. "Here. You take it. You need to keep putting it on at least three times a day until the skin heals."

Newkirk's immediate reaction was to shake his head. "No. I can't. Everyone gets chapped 'ands 'ere. If you 'aven't yet, you will. You keep it."

Hogan knew that Newkirk was right. It couldn't be helped under these living conditions. With most men not even having gloves or scarves, the bitter cold wreaked havoc on the skin.

But Carter wasn't to be swayed and shook his head. "That's alright. You need it more. Besides, I wear my gloves all the time so my hands are fine."

"Carter…it's from your sister," Newkirk protested.

Carter shrugged. "It's okay. I mean it. It'd really make me happy if you had it. And…and my sister likes to help people, so I know she'd be happy too."

"Carter…" Newkirk gave the young American sergeant a baffled look, but must have seen something in his face, for then he smiled appreciatively and said, "Alright then. Ta, mate."

The colonel didn't want to dampen the mood, but knew that putting off his talk with Newkirk would just make things harder in the end. He thought they'd had a good breakthrough that morning when Newkirk had showed his concern for the colonel, and he was in a decent enough mood now, so it was as good a time as any to get any unpleasantness out of the way. Best not to let things like this fester. First, however, he wanted to reassure himself that Newkirk would be up to it.

Sitting down at the table across from Newkirk, Hogan commented, "You're looking better. How're you feeling?"

Newkirk's smile fell when he turned from Carter to Hogan. If Hogan hadn't felt the Englishman's worry for him earlier, he would have thought the look Newkirk was giving him was decidedly unfriendly.

"Fine, sir." The words were clipped. Tense. Huh. Okay, so maybe he'd had a different interpretation of the morning's interaction and any previous friendly moments.

Pressing on anyway, Hogan said, "Glad to hear it. I suppose you'd already heard, but the Kommandant gave you permission to miss roll call for a few more days. I recommend you take advantage of that and get plenty of rest. Someone'll bring you food. You just take it easy and regain your strength."

"Yes, sir," was the flat response. Hogan wondered what was bothering Newkirk _now_. He knew he hadn't imagined Newkirk's worry for him earlier. Was he embarrassed that Hogan had been right about his readiness for roll call? Trying to follow the man's moods was making him dizzy.

Before Hogan could decide if this changed whether or not it was the right time to confront Newkirk, the Englishman in question said formally, "Colonel Hogan, sir?"

Curious, Hogan answered in a similarly formal tone, "Yes?"

"Do you have a minute? To talk? In your office?"

A consummate poker player, Hogan was able to keep the pleased surprise off of face. This quite nicely solved the question of whether or not to talk to Newkirk now and as a bonus he didn't have to be concerned about the other men thinking he was going to bully their friend when he was still weak. Oh, if Hogan felt it was the right thing to do, he still would have had the conversation now, but it was a neater solution to have Newkirk himself initiate the private talk.

"Of course. Need a hand?" Hogan asked.

"No sir, I'm good," said Newkirk, still in that carefully proper voice.

Newkirk started to slowly lever himself up, shaking off LeBeau's hand as he reached out to help him.

"Leave off," he said, his tone slipping into a more testy tone for his friend.

Slowly, but steadily, Newkirk began the short walk to Hogan's room.

None of the other men said anything as the two slowly made their way out of the room, but Hogan did notice a few calculating looks as Hogan patiently followed Newkirk. He expected the men to be concerned about what he was going to say to their friend, but he was surprised to see several of the men looking warily at Newkirk. Hogan frowned as he followed the man into his room. What were they worried about? Hogan reflected that maybe he should have talked to some of the others, like Kinch or one of the other NCOs perhaps, about Newkirk's behavior, but they didn't have any official standing other than rank over Newkirk, and furthermore, it wouldn't be right to put the men in a position where they might feel they were being disloyal to a friend. Shrugging mentally, Hogan dismissed those thoughts. It was too late to fish for more insight and, besides, he had a knack for reading situations himself. No need to start doubting himself now.

He shut the door behind him and gestured for Newkirk to take a seat. It was appropriate to have men stand at attention for formal talks like this, but under the circumstances Hogan wouldn't keep Newkirk on his feet, even if he seemed to be rallying fast now that he was finally up.

Newkirk shook his head, though. "If it's alright, I'd rather stand."

The tone of the request was careful. Measured, but Newkirk was asking, not defying, so Hogan decided to allow it.

"Alright. But if you get tired take a chair."

Hogan himself went around his desk and sat down. "You wanted to see me?" he asked, willing to hear what Newkirk wanted to say before starting his lecture.

Newkirk took deep breath then let it out. He looked straight ahead, not at the colonel.

"I wanted to know my punishment for disobeying your order at roll call yesterday."

Hogan leaned back in his chair and tilted his head. Interesting. Apparently they wanted to talk about the same thing. He hadn't expected Newkirk to come right out like that and admit to his misbehavior, and certainly not ask for punishment.

"I'm glad to hear you're owning up to it. But I'd like an explanation before I take any action."

"No explanation, sir. I'm admitting what I did and am 'ere to take whatever punishment you want to give out."

"I appreciate that, but I'm more interested in your reasoning. It had to be more than disobedience for its own sake. You strike me as being more intelligent than that."

Newkirk flicked his gaze at Hogan as if to see if the colonel was going for a compliment or insult in the words, then looked straight ahead again at nothing.

"Doesn't matter why, only that I did it," he repeated. He continued, still calm but more forceful. "I came in here to find out what my punishment was. Thought it would be better for everyone if it was done in private."

Hogan wondered what Newkirk was up to. He was flat out giving Newkirk a chance to explain and the man was just asking for punishment. Shaking his head, he asked a bit sharply, "You're asking for punishment? Is that what you want? Without explaining?"

There was no crack in his composure as Newkirk said, That's right."

Hogan sat forward in his chair, studying the man standing before him. "Now what makes you think I'd just discipline you without getting all the facts?"

Ah, there it was. There was more than a touch of defiance in Newkirk's voice as he answered, "Because that's 'ow it always goes with your sort."

Hogan couldn't help but be irritated. There was no mistaking the scorn in those words. He'd done more for this particular man than anyone in the camp, yet with that tone Newkirk had once more lumped him into the "enemy" pile. During Newkirk's last few days resting in Hogan's room, the two of them had had several pleasant interactions. Newkirk had even been outright friendly with Hogan at times. And he was sure he hadn't misread Newkirk's concern for him that morning when he'd stood up to Zimmerman. What had changed? Hogan was only human and would admit that for a moment he was sorely tempted to just hand out some kind of punishment and be done with it. After all, that's what Newkirk was asking for. But that wouldn't be the right thing to do. Not for Newkirk. Not for the rest of the men. And not for Hogan himself. He was a better leader than that. Besides, he'd always been the curious type and he really wanted to know what was going on. Hogan leaned back and folded his arms, relaxing again. "The men went through a lot to help you. Risked a lot. Let's not kid ourselves, you're still alive because of them, and adding to their worries by taking a nose dive at roll call wasn't the way to repay their efforts."

Newkirk flicked a look at Hogan, then turned his gaze back to somewhere just over Hogan's left shoulder, the wall still up and nothing betraying his emotions. Hogan wondered if Newkirk knew all that the men did for him. What _Hogan_ had done for him.

Newkirk's next words seemed to confirm that he had been told something at least.

"I didn't ask them to do it. I can look after myself."

Ignoring the obvious untruth in that—Newkirk would have been dead without help—Hogan countered, "You didn't have to ask them. That's not how it works. I don't know what kind of outfits you were in before, but being part of a team means we look out for each other. And that's how we'll make it through this war. There wasn't a single man out there that didn't volunteer to help."

Newkirk shifted his gaze and looked directly at Hogan for the first time since entering his room. He gave an ugly laugh. "Right. Now I know you're lying. I'd wager my last cigarette that Mitchell out there didn't volunteer to 'elp me."

Cursing himself for giving Newkirk any opening in this verbal battle, Hogan conceded, "Granted, he didn't exactly volunteer, but him aside, those men out there didn't wait for you to ask. A hundred things could have gone wrong, but to get you the medicine you needed they figured it was worth it. That _you_ were worth it. Why do you cheapen their efforts by risking a setback when you're barely on your feet?"

Newkirk continued to look Hogan in the eyes, but his expression smoothed out, giving nothing away. Hoping that that meant the Englishman was at least listening, Hogan kept going.

"For some reason you chose to ignore your health and go out in the freezing rain when you couldn't even make it across the room without help. Why? Why would you do that, disobeying an order in the process and ignoring everything those men risked for you?"

Newkirk dropped the calm façade and looked at Hogan as if he was an imbecile. "I was doin' it _for_ that lot out there and they know it. They know I 'ad to. Even 'elped me get dressed."

Hogan frowned. It was foolish of him not to think of that. He'd been too angry seeing Newkirk at roll call that he hadn't thought about what it would have taken to get him up, dressed, and outside in the few minutes he'd been gone. Clearly there were several other men he needed to have a little conversation with.

His own irritation started to bleed through as he countered, "Had to? What you had to do was obey your commanding officer and stay in bed. Like it or not when you put on a uniform, you swore an oath to follow orders."

Newkirk's involuntary glance at his rough civilian clothes made Hogan wish, not for the first time, that the English corporal still had a real uniform. Perhaps the tangible reminder of his military oath would have helped in some small way to curb the man's wayward tendencies.

Continuing as if he hadn't noticed the look of disgust that flitted over Newkirk's face at the sight of his non-military attire, Hogan pushed his point home. "Whether you're decked out in spanking fresh parade dress or covered in a muddy burlap sack, you're still a man in uniform for the duration. And you might not always agree with it, but when I give an order I expect it to be followed."

Newkirk grimaced, then shook his head as if impatient with himself for answering, but he finally challenged hotly, "And what if you're wrong?

"Wrong?" Hogan asked, not surprised at the temerity of the man based on his previous behavior, but still marveling that this corporal would have the gall to question his authority so bluntly.

"If your order's wrong?" Newkirk clarified.

Hogan shook his head. "Yeah, I got what you meant, but what makes you think you can decide when an order's wrong?"

"Sometimes people know things you don't." There we go, that disrespectful defiance was back in full force.

"Then I expect them to tell me," Hogan snapped back. "I won't always agree and I won't be discussing every order, but if it's important, I'll listen to what you have to say."

The disbelief in Newkirk's face would have been comical in another situation. "Tell you?"

"That's right. Why not?"

Newkirk barked a disbelieving laugh.

"Because I'm an American?" Hogan pushed, wanting to bring this conversation to a head.

"Course not," Newkirk answered with disgust.

"Because I'm new?"

The answer was an impatient noise.

"No? Okay, is it because I'm an officer?"

Once more Newkirk didn't verbally respond, but the hard look he gave Hogan was a good an answer as any.

Hogan nodded, satisfied he was close to addressing the real issue. "Yeah. I thought so. Okay, so let's take that to the natural conclusion. Based on your reaction, every officer you've dealt with has been so bad that you inherently distrust all of us."

Newkirk glared angrily, denying the assertion. "No they weren't. Some of them were grand. I would 'ave followed my crew to 'ell and back." The young corporal paused, then laughed with a harsh, dark humor. "Considering where I ended up, guess I managed the first bit." Then his eyes went flat. "But that was before. 'ere…'ere it's different. Seems officer types can't take being locked up. Seems when they 'ave no control, it makes 'em selfish. Mean." Although more or less expecting it, Hogan still hated to see the challenge in his eyes when Newkirk tacked on insolently, "Beggin your pardon sir, but I don't expect any less from you."

The gauntlet had well and truly been thrown and couldn't be ignored. Hogan rose to his feet and came around to the other side of his desk, his arms folded his chest. Time to go on the offensive. Truth be told, Newkirk's words did sting a bit. Hogan couldn't forget his initial reaction to being locked up. What if he hadn't come out of his funk? Would he eventually turned into a Hughes? Would he have become "mean?" No, he didn't think so, but he also never pictured himself sinking into depression either. At any rate, personal soul searching would have to wait. Right now he had to make a few things clear, colonel to corporal.

"Is that so?" he questioned in his hardest voice.

Newkirk didn't have the sense to be intimidated. "Been my experience," he confirmed with a knowing glare.

But Hogan wasn't going to give any ground. "And in your experience I mistreated you? Mistreated the other men? Anyone?"

"No," Newkirk answered firmly, no hint of uncertainty as he acknowledged Hogan's point, but clear that it didn't change his opinion in any way.

"So you have no evidence that I have or will abuse my position, and yet you disregard your own health to disobey my direct order," Hogan continued to challenge.

Newkirk raised his chin defiantly, but said nothing.

"Well?" Hogan asked.

The Englishman shrugged insolently.

"Corporal, I'm waiting for an answer," Hogan barked.

As if recognizing there was only so far he could push Hogan, Newkirk exhaled heavily. "I already admitted to that when we first started this."

This was getting nowhere.

Abruptly making a decision to take things a different route, Hogan grabbed top of the chair from behind his desk and lifted it up and over. He saw Newkirk flinch as he was turning. Did the corporal really think Hogan was about to hit him with the chair? Right. Of course he did. Hadn't Hogan witnessed Hughes in this very room doing something just as bad? He said nothing about this insight, however, as he placed his chair firmly on the floor. Then to Newkirk's obvious bafflement, Hogan grabbed the second chair and put it facing his, a few feet away.

"Sit," he ordered, gesturing to the second chair.

"What?" Newkirk asked in startled confusion.

"This ends here and now. I said sit," Hogan commanded.

He was thankful that Newkirk did as told and took a seat, but in truth Hogan wasn't sure the Englishman obeyed because of his forceful order or because he'd been tired of standing. He hoped it was the former, but had a suspicion it was the latter. Grateful regardless that he wouldn't have to force the issue, Hogan took his seat a couple feet from Newkirk and leaned forward, elbows on knees.

Newkirk drew back slightly, looking at the colonel warily.

"We need to talk," said Hogan. "None of this cat and mouse nonsense, but the straight scoop. You won't talk to an officer, fine. Let's talk man to man."

Hogan hoped what he was about to say would finally get through Newkirk's thick skull. It was about time the man understood a few things.

"What Group Captain Hughes did to you was inexcusable, criminal behavior," Hogan said flatly. "If I had my way he'd be up on charges and in jail so fast his head would spin. I despise what he did and what you had to go through. It's the duty of every officer to take care of his men and he betrayed his oath with his treatment of you. This is war. Sometimes bad things happen...unfortunately we can't always place a soldier's well-being over getting our mission done. But that wasn't the case here. His job was to see to your well-being and he not only failed, he directly caused your injuries. If I have my way, he'll never command another soul. An officer's duty…the _privilege_ of being an officer is to do what we can to balance both the mission and the men. And like it or not, you're one of mine now. And that means I'll do whatever I can to protect you, whether it's from the Germans, men like Hughes, or from your own stubborn insubordination."

Newkirk response was one of slack-jawed astonishment. He recovered himself almost instantly and snapped his mouth shut, but Hogan was glad to see it nonetheless. The colonel hid his satisfaction at shaking the man's composure and continued. He didn't like to emphasize his own role in recent operations, but now was the time to make clear just what he himself had done for Newkirk.

"That's why I risked my own life to save yours. Once I thought of a way to do it, I could no more leave you to die than if you'd been General of the Army. So I left camp to meet with the Underground in the hopes of getting some penicillin for _you_. And that's also why I stepped in this morning to make sure Zimmerman left you alone. On my team, we look out for each other, and that's all there is to it," he finish passionately.

Hogan wasn't sure exactly what he'd been expecting from Newkirk, maybe sheepish contrition, maybe gratitude, maybe just reluctant understanding. What he didn't expect was the narrowed eyes and calculating look.

"Man to man, you said?" asked Newkirk.

Wary of where Newkirk was going to go with this but silently thrilled that he knew he was finally going to get that insight he'd been waiting for, Hogan confirmed, "That's right."

Newkirk leaned forward. "Then I'll tell you what I think. I think you want something from me and I'd like to find out what it is. Sure you did those things. Sure you protected me, and took care of me when I was sick, but what's it gonna cost me, eh? Are we finally getting to that? Just 'ow is it that you want me to look after you? You 'eard I was a thief and you need me to steal something? You think because of my background maybe I'll take care of a few problems for you? Is that it? That I don't mind doing the dirty work? Just what do you expect for your _protection_?"

Shocked anger coursed through Hogan. Newkirk thought that every action he'd taken on his behalf, everything he'd risked, was for some sort of _payoff_? That anyone could think Hogan would be so dishonorable was like a punch in the gut. As a POW his honor and integrity were about all he had left, and having it called in question like that left him livid. It was all he could do to keep from exploding, but he couldn't help coating his words with a red fury when he answered.

"You know something? You're a miserable, ungrateful, pathetic excuse of a man who doesn't understand the first thing about honor and decency. I guess I misread you. Because of how the other men reacted to you being locked up and care about you, I thought there was more underneath that disrespectful, mouthy exterior than you've showed so far, but I guess I was wrong. I escaped from this hellhole but I _came back_ to save your sorry backside and all you can do is ask what it's going to cost you, as if I'm some sort of dark alley shyster trading favors for favors. You don't understand the first thing about doing the honorable thing simply because it's the _right_ thing to do! But hey, forget about me, what about those men out there who call you their friend? I dare you to ask _them_ what their angle is.

Newkirk matched Hogan's anger.

"You're right, they are my friends, so I don't 'ave to ask what they want. I know them. I know them like they were me own brothers and I'd give my life for them in a 'eartbeat and they know it! But you, I 'eard 'ow you were mopin' about camp, letting 'ughes and 'is lot run amuck while you just sat back, stewin' at 'ow unfair it was that you were stuck 'ere, as if somehow your lot was worse than the rest of us. But then you got me sprung from the cooler, went after that medicine, and started takin' charge. Why? What changed? There 'as to be a reason you went to the trouble. What do you _want_ from me?"

Listening to Newkirk's anger gave Hogan enough time to get his own under control and he was able to think clearly. Once again, he felt the sting of guilt as he acknowledged the truth of some of Newkirk's words—he had been moping about leaving things to Hughes for far too long—but he was trying to atone for that behavior and now wasn't the time to dwell on it. He had to turn the conversation back on a more productive track.

"Were there other officers, or just Hughes?"

"What?" Newkirk hissed at the abrupt question.

"You said being stuck here makes officers mean. Well, were there others, or are you just projecting Hughes' behavior onto all of us?"

Newkirk barked out an ugly laugh. "Are you joking? Every single one of them since I got 'ere. Three others before 'ughes."

Hogan had seen the names of the other officers who'd been assigned to Stalag 13 in Hughes' records, but hadn't heard much about the men. Only that two had been transferred and one had escaped. It was that escape that had prompted the change of Kommandants, bringing Colonel Klink to Stalag 13.

"Major Darnell, Lieutenant Wainwright, and Captain Lillycrop," Hogan rattled off. "What about them?"

Newkirk gave Hogan a pure look of hatred upon hearing those names. "What does it matter?

"I want to know?" Hogan said firmly.

The English corporal looked about as dangerous as Hogan had ever seen the man as his face hardened into a mask of loathing. He leaned forward and said in a clipped, flat voice, "So be it. Let's go through them in order. Major Darnell, well I knew 'im before the war. 'e was in my squadron, you see. Everyone liked 'im, myself included. Friendly chap, always 'ad a good word to say. Was shot down around the same time I was and we got 'ere within days of each other. Thought that was a good piece of luck, aving' someone like 'im in charge. Well, that nice friendly chap turned out to be a 'hole other sort of bloke 'ere. Didn't care about no one but 'imself. Took command straight off, but turns out 'e only did that so 'e could do what 'e had to to keep the Jerries off of 'im. Not the rest of the lads. Just 'im. As long as 'e was safe, didn't care what 'appened to anyone else. We were all fed up with 'im, but the final straw was when 'e stood right by when a guard was beatin' a man to 'alf to death. _Stood_ there. Didn't say one word or try to stop it. The guards 'ad their rifles on us, but even so we tried to stop it. Ended up with more than a few broken 'eads that day. But Darnell, 'e stood off to the side and just watched it all, then went inside 'is room when it was all done not saying a word to anyone, not even to see how Oliver, the bloke what was beaten, how 'e was. Afterwards 'e even kissed up to Kommandant Schwartz, saying 'ow 'e understood why the guards 'ad to dispense discipline. Then the coward was transferred. Apparently 'aving your senior POW killed doesn't look good on a Kommandant's record, and Oliver's best mate was planning to take care of Darnell, if you know what I mean. So when the Kommandant got wind of it, 'e shipped 'im off before anything could 'appen.

Hogan knew exactly what Newkirk meant. Darnell wouldn't have been the first bad officer killed by his own men for what they considered to be crimes against them. He grimaced, finding both Darnell's actions and Newkirk's casual acknowledgement of a planned murder distasteful. But Newkirk wasn't done.

"And then Wainwright, oh, 'e was a fine fellow, 'e was. Born with a silver spoon in 'is mouth. No title, but acted like 'e 'ad a dozen. Expected everyone to wait on 'im 'and and foot. 'e was a selfish fop, but mostly we could just ignore 'im. It's not like we didn't see that sort back 'ome, anyway. But then we 'ad us a right awful summer when most of the lads got sick."

Hogan remembered back to what LeBeau had said about terrible conditions that first summer and how so many men had taken ill.

"Ole Wainwright, well 'e never caught it 'imself, but'e couldn't be bothered to 'elp take care of any of them. Kept 'imself 'oled up in 'is room, reading or something while men were dying right outside 'is door. It was right out of a nightmare. Men stacked up two, three to a bed. The 'eat. The smell. The flies. Bowls of vomit on the floor. So many soiled sheets that men would 'ave to lie in their own mess for hours because there just weren't enough of us to keep everyone clean." Newkirk swallowed and his eyes grew bleak, forgetting his anger as he lost himself in the memory. "We needed every able bodied man to do 'is part but Wainwright wouldn't even bring water to the lads. Wouldn't even do that much!" Newkirk's eyes glistened. "There were only a few of us who weren't sick and it was weeks of doing what we could. Watching lads die because there just weren't enough of us to take care of 'em all. No sleep for days as we tried to stay ahead of it, but even that wasn't enough. A lot of it's a blur, but I'll never forget Wainwright. 'e never lifted one finger. Not once. Then just when it was at its worst, 'e arranged 'is own transfer out of camp so 'e wouldn't catch anything. Not sure 'ow 'e did it, probably a bribe since 'is family's rich, but there 'e went…stupid selfish git!" He shook his head as if to push away the memory, then took a deep breath. "And then there's Lillycrop."

Hogan nearly drew back at the look of deep, venomous enmity glittering in Newkirk's eyes as he suddenly looked straight at Hogan. The colonel had been wrong. The dangerous look Newkirk had had when he'd started was nothing compared to this. Where he loathed Darnell and was disgusted and scornful of Wainwright, Newkirk _hated_ Lillycrop.

"What can I say about 'im? Thought we'd finally scored us a good one when 'e arrived. Lively. Charismatic. Took care of the men. Got us extra rations and blankets when it got too cold. Stood up to the Kommandant a couple of times, ending up in the cooler with the rest of us more than once for keeping the guards from being too rough. After Darnell and Wainwright, we would 'ave followed 'im anywhere. Yeah, 'e 'ad us all fooled. Thought e' coulda hung the moon, but turns out 'e was the worst of 'em all. Formed a small group of us that 'e used to get things done, create mischief, distract the guards when it looked like one of the lads would get in trouble, and that sort of thing. Six of us in all in 'is group. We thought 'e wanted our talents to 'elp everyone, but it turns out 'e was conniving a way out of camp and we were part of 'is escape plan. Four men. _Four_ of our group were shot when 'e scarpered and what's worse is that was part of 'is plan. 'e knew it would get us killed. Only two of us on 'is team, me and Chappy, were lucky enough to survive." Newkirk swallowed. "The captain betrayed us all, 'e did. They cracked down after that and another three men, who 'ad no part in any of it, died from the starvation rations we got put on before old Klink arrived." Newkirk fell silent for a moment, his eyes falling to his lap. Then he raised his head and said with complete conviction. "I'll be looking 'im up, meself, after the war."

Once again, the colonel had no doubt what Newkirk was saying. In this case, it was Newkirk who had murder on his mind.

Hogan was processing all he'd heard when Newkirk's expression lightened and he smirked as he said, "Fact is, 'ughes 'as been the best of the lot, and that's the truth."

The truth. Well, Hogan would have been hard pressed to describe the truth of how he was feeling as he added Newkirk's flippant dismissal of Hughes' violent abuse to the list of the actions of the other officers. Scorching feelings penetrated as he thought about the four officers who proceeded him. Fury. Dismay. Disgust. Outrage. No wonder Newkirk was having a hard time with him. He could scarcely believe that the camp had had four such pathetic excuses of leaders. What were the odds? Had the previous Kommandant had something to do with it? No matter the provocation, however, there was no excuse and he would never understand why those men had betrayed their oaths and their honor, one after another. At this point, Hogan would have promised his firstborn if he could have gathered all those officers in one room to spread a little justice of his own. It was no surprise the men had been lukewarm to him when he arrived. Then again, why hadn't they been downright hostile?

His mouth dry, Hogan had to clear his throat before asking, "So why don't the others feel the way you do?"

The look Newkirk gave Hogan hardened before he answered. "Because most of them don't know all of it and that's the way it needs to stay. Only a few were 'ere for Darnell. Then most were too sick to notice or care about Wainwright. And Lillycrop…" Newkirk looked positively murderous for a moment. "No one knows about what 'e did 'cept Chappy and me, and we made a pact not to tell. The captain was gone, and we figured telling everyone 'ow 'e betrayed us wouldn't 'elp anything. Morale was bad enough." He looked up at Hogan. "You're the first one I've told, but you needed to 'ear it so you believe me when I say I'll do _whatever_ it takes to protect my mates. I 'eard about your plans. About that little team you 'ave going, and I'm not going to let the same thing 'appen to them, understand?"

The threat wasn't the least bit subtle. Not the words. Not the tone. Surprisingly, however, Hogan felt better. At last he knew what he was dealing with.

He leaned back and took a deep breath before letting it out slowly. Okay. One. Apparently between this morning and now someone had spilled the beans to Newkirk on Hogan's plans for a sabotage unit. No surprise there. A couple on Hogan's core team were his closest friends. The excuse he'd given the men for keeping Newkirk in the dark was that he didn't want to trouble the ill man. Now that Newkirk was better, the men must have figured that rationale no longer applied. Two. Hearing about Hogan's newly formed team appeared to be the catalyst for Newkirk's current hostility. Despite seeming to soften his attitude towards the colonel earlier, learning that his friends might be heading down a disastrous path he'd already taken had apparently rekindled all of Newkirk's old feelings of distrust. Three. Hogan had a lot to make up for regarding his fellow officers. He was only grateful that not all of the men knew the details of what had transpired before, for indeed he believed every word Newkirk had just told him. Though they had been full of hate and loathing, Hogan could hear the truth in Newkirk's words. Four. He still needed to take care of the walking, talking discipline problem sitting in the opposite chair, arms folded across his chest as he glared at the colonel defiantly. Five. He had to chose his next words carefully, for he now knew with certainty that he not only wanted to diffuse the situation, but he wanted this rough-edged, but spirited and, yes, fiercely loyal man on his team. Stolen cakes and other misbehaviors would have to be dealt with, but they paled in comparison to the value Newkirk could bring to his team.

"I understand," he acknowledged calmly, then added firmly, "I don't take to threats, but I respect what you're saying. I'd feel the same way in your shoes. Of course, this leaves me with a bit of a problem, because there's a chance that no matter what I tell you, you'll think I'm like Lillycrop, trying to manipulate you and your friends. I'm not, but that's not the point. The point is that we need to come to an understanding. I'm the colonel and you're the corporal and that's just the way it is. I can't be wondering every time I give an order if you're going to disobey it, or worse, if you're going to sabotage my efforts behind my back with the rest of the men."

Newkirk stared coolly at him as Hogan continued.

"A commanding officer doesn't have to prove himself before expecting a soldier to follow his orders, but I'll allow that this is a special case and you need to know that I'm not like the others. Not Lillycrop. None of them. I meant what I said about it being my privilege to look after my men and I'm going to do everything in my power to see to it that all of you walk out that gate at the end of the war, sooner if we can. You might not believe me now, but in time you will. In the meantime, we need to come to an understanding about your behavior. Open defiance isn't going to cut it. But nor will subversive obedience. You know the kind. Where you obey the letter of an order, but ignore its intent."

Hogan caught a satisfied smirk. Yeah, Hogan was sure Newkirk would be a master at that technique.

"Like it or not, I was given a mission and I'm going to carry it out. And that means building a team, some of them your good friends, sometimes putting them in danger. I won't needlessly endanger them, but this _is_ a war we're fighting, and we have to take risks. I won't risk them for my benefit, though. I can promise you that. And if there's an escape, I'm going to be the last one out."

The colonel wasn't sure if he should be pleased or disappointed when Newkirk still didn't speak as Hogan paused. He wanted to know what Newkirk was thinking and the man's expression wasn't giving anything away.

"Alright, let me put it this way, what's your gut saying? It's easy to see you have street smarts. What are they telling you?"

Newkirk shrugged one shoulder dismissively as he said honestly, "That you're telling the truth. But I thought Lillycrop was on the up and up, and we know 'ow that turned out."

Hogan crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back. "I need you, if not on my side, at least not causing problems. I could simply order you to comply or have you thrown in the cooler again for disobedience, but that wouldn't be good for anyone. So what do you suggest?"

Newkirk regarded him suspiciously.

"That's right," Hogan prompted, "I want to hear your input."

"You want to know what I think? What you can do so I'll trust you? You're _asking_ me? Like you said, you're a colonel and I'm a corporal and you could just order me to do what you want, and punish me if I don't. What does my opinion count?"

Hogan shook his head. "I told you for this conversation I'm putting rank aside and talking to you straight, man to man, and I want to hear what you have to say. You don't trust me. You think I'm going to turn on you and your friends. You think I'm manipulating everyone for my own gain. Okay, I'm telling you that's simply not true, but my saying so won't change your mind, so I need to know what will. Look, I'm going to go ahead with my plans with or without your cooperation. You're not key to my efforts, but I admit it would be a lot easier for all of us if you didn't fight me." Hogan paused as he considered what other approach he could take. Then asked, "What do rest of the fellas say?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "They're a barmy lot. After your little caper they're talking like you could take out 'itler blindfolded.' He sniffed in disdain. "You'll be 'appy to know they read me the riot act for not telling you about Zimmerman. Said you would've understood."

Willing to digress for a moment, Hogan asked, "I would've huh? You're talking about roll call yesterday I take it, not this morning? What would I have understood?"

Newkirk snorted. "You sure are a nosy sort, aren't you? Wantin' to know everything. Why I went to roll call when you said to stay in bed? Well 'ere it is. You don't know Zimmerman. 'aving Klink countermand 'im is the worst thing you could have done. You see, 'e'll punish us now. Not just me. All of us. I'm not afraid of a fight, but there're some battles you know you can't win and if you're smart you don't try. It was worth standing outside for a few minutes to keep 'im 'appy. As long as 'e feels like 'e's got the upper 'and, 'e leaves us alone. What you saw this morning was just the start of 'im getting back at us. Just you wait. Until 'e feels like we understand who's boss, 'e won't let up. Officers aren't the only ones who can get mean around 'ere."

Hogan let that last jab slide as he thought of the implications. Yeah, he could easily imagine Zimmerman enjoying throwing his weight around and abusing the prisoners. He'd suspected it might be something like that. Hogan nodded. "Okay, I'll buy that. But why couldn't you have just said so? Saved us all a lot of grief."

Newkirk's eyes narrowed. "'ave you not listened to a thing I said? You're an officer. Why would I tell you anything?"

Hogan sighed impatiently. "Back to square one are we?" He shook his head with exasperation. "What am I going to do with you?" He stood up and walked to the window, staring out of it in silence for several minutes as he tried to think of some way to get through to the stubborn man. In the silence he heard the muted murmur of voices from the other room, reminding him of how long he and Newkirk had been in his office.

Hogan turned back and saying abruptly, "You know the men are probably wondering if we've killed each other by now."

Newkirk looked at the door then turned back with an unexpected trace of reluctant humor. "Don't worry. You're safe from me. Don't think I could get up out of this chair right now if I wanted. And besides, the lads said they'd give me the what for if I didn't do right by you."

Hogan threw up his hands. "And this has been your idea of doing right?" He crossed back over to Newkirk and stood over him, his hands on his hips. "You've got to be one of the most frustrating men I've ever had to deal with."

"I get that a lot," Newkirk agreed flippantly.

"I'm sure you have," said Hogan dryly. "But I still don't know what I'm going to do with you."

Newkirk shrugged. "If you recall, that's all I wanted to know when I came in 'ere. I asked for my punishment straight up." He paused. "And I also wanted to make sure you understood a few things, about how I feel about people messing with me mates."

Hogan literally waved away the threat. He didn't like Newkirk thinking he could threaten him, but honestly did understand where he was coming from. He only wished that sentiment gave him insight on what to do now. Then something else Newkirk had said earlier caught up with his consciousness.

Hogan frowned. "What? Wait a minute. What do you mean by you couldn't get out of the chair?"

Newkirk scratched the back of his head and sighed, tension leaking out of him at the sound. "Didn't really mean to say that out loud," he confessed in a sheepish, if weary voice, "but if I didn't know better, I'd say I was glued to the chair."

"Newkirk! Forget about killing each other, if the others think I damaged you in any way they'll take care of me themselves!" Hogan was only half-jesting. Knowing now what Newkirk's attitude had been coming into this conversation, Hogan was pretty sure that some of the looks of concern coming from the men had been on his behalf, but he wasn't going to fool himself. If Newkirk had to be carried out of his office, it was going to be his goose that was cooked. Worse, however, was the knowledge that it wouldn't take much to send the already borderline health of the man spinning back out of control.

Hogan shook his head. "Come on, let's take a look at you," he said, genuine worry over his errant corporal coloring his tone.

He knelt down in front of Newkirk and looked at him closely. The corporal's face was grey with fatigue and a touch of renewed pain. Hogan was angry with himself for being so caught up in the verbal sparring that he hadn't noticed. He had no idea how long Newkirk had been sitting at the table before coming in here, but that on top of standing during the first part of this conversation was still too much, too soon for the recovering man.

Hogan reached forward and felt Newkirk's forehead as he'd done a dozen times in the past weeks. When he felt Newkirk pull back, he wondered how much of his illness Newkirk remembered. Certainly Newkirk had been well enough the past few days that he had to know that Hogan had had a hands-on role in his care. Unlike the callous Wainwright, who hadn't done anything to help with barracks-full of ill men, Hogan had directly helped with Newkirk's care—why didn't the Englishman give him credit for that? Did he really believe Hogan was doing it all for some sort of payoff? The thought was as sad as it was infuriating.

He cursed softly when he found Newkirk's face felt a bit warm. Then again, they were both sitting near Hogan's stove so that could be all it was, but he wasn't about to risk a relapse now.

"I didn't mean for you to overdo it. Thought you were up for this," Hogan said apologetically as his look conveyed the worry that was stealing over him at the thought of anything going wrong at this point. He gently grabbed Newkirk's chin next and tilted his face slightly so Hogan could look into his eyes. Newkirk's startled look almost masked an overwhelming weariness, but the bloodshot exhaustion was nonetheless there to read, confirming to Hogan that this session was now over.

"Hmmm…you're a touch warm, but I don't think you have a fever. You need to go lie down for awhile, though," he said with concern. "I'd ask why you didn't tell me you were starting to feel poorly, but I think we've already established that," he added with an exasperated chuff. "Come on, easy does it." He put one hand under Newkirk's elbow and another behind his shoulder, easing him forward to help him onto his feet.

But Newkirk stopped him, pulling out of Hogan's hands not out of anger, but so he could look Hogan in the face.

Newkirk shook his head, started to speak, stopped himself, then stared at his commanding officer intently. His mouth worked for a moment before he whispered, "Tell me you're for real," shocking Hogan with the pleading look Newkirk was giving him.

"What?" was all Hogan could get out, confused by the question and surprised at the naked emotion coming from the other man.

"Tell me," Newkirk said again, this time louder, but if possible even more desperate. "What you said before. 'bout an officer's duty. And what you're doing right now. You can't honestly be worried about what the gents out there will say. You didn't do anything to me. You're worried… for _me_….aren't you? I don't think you're faking it. I…." Newkirk licked his lips and hoarsely, "Tell me that you're for real. Promise that you really care what 'appens to us. That I'm not going to turn around and find you're in it for yourself and you're doing all this so I'm obliged to pay you back. Promise I won't 'ave to 'ear that you've got the lads killed somehow."

Hogan was touched by the fear and hope that battled within Newkirk's expression as the man, his defenses battered down by exhaustion and Hogan's unexpected concern, fought to believe what his instincts were telling him.

Hogan smiled. Not his confident 'I can take on the world smile' nor his brash 'I just pulled the wool over your eyes smile,' but the one he reserved for special moments. The one that conveyed the caring and compassion of the man that no war would ever erode.

"I promise," he swore solemnly. "I meant every word I said to you. I'm not going to use you or the men. I'm not going to trick you. I'm going to do whatever I can to keep all of us alive. And I'm not going to abandon you. Whatever happens, we're in this together."

Newkirk's eyes were locked on his, afraid of giving in but not able to refute the sincerity evident in every one of Hogan's words.

Newkirk's hands balled into fists and he looked away, his breathing suddenly erratic. Then he turned back and once more met Hogan's gaze. "I'm so tired of not believing there's any 'ope," he confessed in a moment of raw honesty, still searching Hogan's face for reassurance.

"I won't let you down," Hogan promised solemnly.

Newkirk blinked and took a breath. "You really mean that."

Hogan smiled. "I do."

Newkirk took another deep breath, then let it all out in one long exhale. He held Hogan's look for a long minute, then returned the colonel's smile with a brilliant one of his own. Hogan was delighted to see for the first time that there was true understanding and acceptance in the smile. Finally.

Hogan released his own breath, not realizing he'd been holding it, then said casually, relieving the intensity of the moment, "You about ready to show the men that we're both still in one piece?"

"Wouldn't say no to that idea of a nap either," Newkirk agreed, relief in his own tone at the return to less weighty subjects.

When the Englishman made no move to get up, Hogan asked, "Need a hand?"

Newkirk grinned and nodded, a twinkle in his eyes as he said, "Glued to the chair, remember?"

Hogan laughed out loud, pleased beyond all measure that he _knew_ he'd won over the man. There would still be a few wrinkles to iron out, including certain behaviors to curb, but somehow they'd come to that understanding he'd been hoping for.

He moved forward to help Newkirk up. Instead of taking his elbow and shoulder this time, however, Hogan crouched down and slipped his arm around Newkirk's waist, basically lifting the man out of the chair. Pulling an arm over his shoulder, Hogan was walking them to the door when his exhausted corporal stumbled, causing Hogan to veer over to his bunk instead.

"How about you rest here for awhile? It's quieter and a lot closer than your bunk."

Newkirk nodded, then shakily admitted, "Standing up made me a bit dizzy."

Grateful that his bunk was only a few feet away, Hogan soon levered Newkirk down onto the lower bed and helped him lie down.

The corporal immediately closed his eyes as he took some steadying breaths. They popped back open as he breathed a sigh of relief, "That's the ticket. I'm…I'm sorry to be a bother, sir…staying in your room again."

Hogan spread a blanket over Newkirk and said kindly, "Don't worry about it. I got used to it, actually. It's been quiet without the guys trooping in here every few minutes to see how you were doing. In fact, I'd better go out there soon or they'll probably bust in anyways to make sure I haven't tossed you out the window," he joked, eliciting another smile from Newkirk.

He fussed about for a minute, spreading another blanket…despite the stove the room was still chilly. He was about to go talk to the rest of the men when Newkirk spoke.

"Colonel…"

Hogan squatted by the bed so he wasn't looming over the prone man. "Yeah?"

"Colonel…I'm thinking…I'm thinking maybe I'll need to prove myself to you too," he said uncertainly. "I do know what it means to be honorable."

With chagrin, Hogan remembered saying something in anger about Newkirk not knowing the first thing about doing the honorable thing. He patted the man's arm reassuringly. "I know you do. I'm sorry I said what I did. I was angry and said some things I didn't mean."

He started to rise, but was stopped when Newkirk's hand on his forearm stopped him from rising.

"Sir…" Newkirk swallowed. "I'm sorry too…'bout some of the things I said. Not about looking after me mates," he warned seriously, "but for some of the other stuff, I'm sorry. I know I can 'ave a bit of a mouth on me, but if you do right by us, I'll never do you wrong," he promised.

Hogan reached forward and squeezed Newkirk's shoulder. "How about we just start over?"

Newkirk smiled, but shook his head. "I'm not going to forget what you've done. Wouldn't be right. But I wouldn't mind it too much if you felt like forgetting some of the nasty things I've said."

"Done," Hogan agreed firmly. He tucked Newkirk's arm back under the blankets and stood. "Now, you ready to get some rest while I go have a chat with the boys?"

Conscience apparently now satisfied, Newkirk nodded and his eyes slipped shut.

But as Hogan quietly made his way to the door, he was once more stopped as he reached for the knob.

"Colonel Hogan?" Newkirk said quietly.

"Yeah Newkirk?"

Hogan could hear the sigh from across the room as Newkirk summed up everything he was thinking in two words. "Thanks guv'nor."

oOoOoOoOo

A/N: Yeesh…this one was a bit long. Sorry. There was just so much that I wanted the two of them to say and I didn't want to break it up into two chapters. It was a really fun scene to write—apparently I've been wanting to write this encounter for a long time, because the words just kept flying onto the page. Anyway, just a few more loose ends to wrap up and then I'll be done! Thanks to everyone who's been hanging in there with me!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Col Robert Hogan was a happy man. Well, as happy as one could be while locked up in a prisoner of war camp. One couldn't be truly _happy_ as a prisoner, but all in all, Hogan walked out to roll call one freezing morning with the air of a man who was satisfied with his life. If he'd taken time to analyze his feelings, he would have said it was because he was once more a man with a mission. His head was back in the game, plans were coming together, his confidence was back in full force, and he and his team were well on their way to being ready for their first strike against the Germans.

He smiled a greeting as Newkirk slid in to his left and offered a jaunty "mornin' guv'nor." A couple of weeks had passed since they had cleared the air between them and the young corporal had now been joining the formation for a week. He'd had no new setbacks to his recovery and his face was finally losing that gaunt, ill look from before. He still had a delicate appearance, like the slightest problem could send his health spiraling down, but Hogan wasn't worried. The men wouldn't let anything happen to Newkirk. In fact, the corporal was becoming downright annoyed with their solicitous attention, but it didn't faze the men who were determined to mollycoddle their friend until he was fully recovered. Of course, his returning health meant that Newkirk's more mischievous side had also been starting to make an appearance, but Hogan was pleased to find that the corporal seemed to know where the line was and hadn't crossed it so far.

Hogan breathed in the cold air deeply as he tuned out the beginning of yet another of Klink's speeches. Rocking back and forth on his heels, he allowed his thoughts to drift as he tried to think of anything but the cold and the 'superiority of the master race.'

He turned his thoughts back to the man beside him, wondering if the return of Newkirk's penchant for pranks was going to cause trouble. It really could, Hogan thought, for he had confirmed what he'd suspected all along, that Newkirk's opinion did carry some weight with his fellow prisoners. This had become apparent when Hogan saw a change in how the men interacted with him after his little talk with Newkirk. After the Englishman made his newfound respect for and acceptance of the colonel obvious, what had been the makings of a good team had crystalized into a great team, with a new air of cooperation and camaraderie that Hogan hadn't realized was missing until he saw it blossoming right before his eyes. He wondered if Newkirk realized his role in that.

Then he thought back to a look he and the corporal had shared the evening before as the men were discussing ideas for local sabotage. It had just been for a fraction of a second, but over the din of many voices trying to talk over one other, Hogan and Newkirk had caught each other's eye and the proud smirk that had come over Newkirk's face told Hogan everything he needed to know. Yes, the cheeky Englishman was well aware that, beyond the normal influence a corporal should have, his acceptance of the colonel was a part of the confidence and enthusiasm displayed by the other men.

Smiling to himself, Hogan knew he didn't begrudge Newkirk's awareness of his own importance in the society of the camp. The man had been there for years and if he had influence, it was because he had earned his place. He figured it would be the same with some of the other men as well. For instance, if Kinch hadn't trusted him, he knew it would have been almost impossible to win over the men. Well, regardless, Hogan was just glad that he had finally gained Newkirk's trust, further enhancing Hogan's own place with the team.

Ah yes, his team. Truthfully, they were the real source of his contentment. Yes, if he could have, he'd have gone back in time and stripped a piece of hide off his old self for stupidly judging these men on first appearances. They were shaping up to be the best group of men he'd ever worked with. Heck, the best group he'd ever _known_. Dedicated, clever, loyal, and showing all signs of having the guts to follow through with whatever crazy plans he might come up with, Hogan was counting himself a very lucky man to end up with this group to back his play.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Newkirk tug his flight cap more firmly onto his head as the icy wind threatened to blow it off. His team was responsible for that too. As the Kommandant droned on in the cold, Hogan shivered and continued to tune him out as he thought back to yesterday, when the men of Barracks 2 had dragged their recovering companion to the table, sat him down, and told him to shut his eyes. It took a couple of minutes of rummaging through foot lockers and pulling things from beneath pillows before they were ready. The whole time Newkirk kept up a running commentary based on the sounds he was hearing. It was all Hogan could do from laughing out loud—the man could have been a comedian.

When at long last they told Newkirk he could open his eyes, they were all standing in front of him, holding out the pieces for a full, regulation RAF uniform. Unbeknownst to Newkirk, or to Hogan himself for that matter, the men had scoured the camp to find the various pieces that would make up the pieces of Newkirk's missing uniform, collecting donations or calling in favors where necessary to pull together what they needed. The cherry on top had to be the overcoat, however. It was Newkirk's own, rescued from the garbage heap and cleaned thoroughly before being patched lovingly by LeBeau, who knew how much it would mean to his English friend to have one of his original uniform pieces. In the end, Newkirk had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could speak and afterwards got grumpy about his reaction, responding testily when he got teased about it. But now, seeing Newkirk back in uniform, stamping his feet against the cold, Hogan felt it was just one more sign that things were going to turn out right for his team and he was right where he should be.

*Blink*

What had he missed? While his thoughts had been drifting, Klink must have finished his sermon on the greatness of the Third Reich, for now he was heading over to where Hogan was standing. Surely the Kommandant wasn't going to make a big deal over the fact that Hogan'd been daydreaming?

"Colonel Hogan, you will be happy to know that today marks the end of your men's punishment and they will be released from the cooler after lunch," said Klink as he reached Hogan.

What? Hogan's mind switched gears from wondering if Klink would be petty enough to expect people to really listen to his lectures, to processing what the German colonel was saying. The men in the cooler? They were going to be released? Today? Already?

"That's great news, Kommandant. I'm sure they've learned their lesson," Hogan managed to say, pleased that it sounded smooth instead of flustered.

"See to it that they have," said Klink. "I'll be watching for trouble. No one…"

"You can count on my men, colonel," Hogan interrupted, hoping to head off another lecture. "They know better than to try to put one over the Iron Eagle."

As predicted, Klink puffed up with approval over the nickname and with a satisfied 'humpf,' turned around and marched off.

Hogan was glad he'd left, for he was trying to adjust to the news. He guessed the old adage, 'time flies when you're having fun' must be true, for it caught him by surprise that an entire month had passed since the incident between Hughes and Newkirk. On the one hand, it seemed like a lifetime ago. On the other, he couldn't believe that the men were going to be released. Between planning his operation, construction work on the tunnel, beginning work on the infirmary (for which Klink finally supplied the materials), and of course the usual roll calls and meals, Hogan's days had melded together into a never-ending stream of activity that left little time for thinking about the men in the cooler. He simply hadn't realized an entire month had passed since the incident between Hughes and Newkirk.

He was pleased in one respect of course—after all, most of the men locked away hadn't deserved it. Mostly, however, he was annoyed. How could he have let so much time pass without putting enough thought into how he was going to deal with Hughes? How would Hughes' return affect the dynamics of the camp, especially his own barracks? Everyone was getting along great now. Clearing the air with Newkirk had been the final piece of the puzzle and now everyone in Barracks 2 was working together like a well-oiled machine. Even Mitchell wasn't a problem. He'd been keeping his head down and not causing any trouble, so over the past month the open hostility towards him had eventually faded into either disinterest or grudging acceptance.

But now…now Hughes would be back in the mix, not to mention that the number of men in the barracks would increase by over a third. There would be a whole new set of group dynamics for Hogan to work out.

He had to fight to keep his disgruntled feelings from showing as he joined the men on their way to breakfast. They were chattering happily over the news of their friends' return, but Hogan found it hard to join their cheery conversation. Just when he had been congratulating himself on how well the team was shaping up, now there were going to be complications, which was the last thing he needed. Although everything was going according to plan so far, it wouldn't take much to derail their efforts. A little bit of bad luck could ruin all their hard work, or, worst case scenario, land them in front of a firing squad.

He didn't have too much time to think about problems, however. Before he knew it, he was seated at the long table where his barracks was assigned for meals, and had to put on a happy face as everyone ate their breakfast. He tried to soak in a bit of the men's happiness and by the end of the meal, figured he must have put on a pretty good show, for no one seemed to have guess that he wasn't thrilled with the Kommandant's news.

The rest of the morning and lunch passed quickly enough, and as the time approached for the release, Hogan's men became more and more excited. Like long-absent family members, the cooler inmates had been missed and their return was reason for celebrating. Hogan remembered Newkirk's return from the cooler a month before and the men's similar air of anticipation. He just hoped Hughes didn't ruin it somehow.

It was shortly after one when Carter, who had been keeping watch at the window announced, "Here they come!"

Finally, the door opened and the first of the prisoners entered. Hughes, of course. Hogan was about to speak, wanting to head off any confrontation, when, to his utter surprise, a single voice greeted Hughes.

"Welcome back, Group Captain," Newkirk said in a friendly tone.

Hughes stopped and faced Newkirk. "Still alive then?" he asked mildly.

Hogan tensed as his eyes flew between the pair, ready to intervene if necessary. But the RAF corporal merely nodded pleasantly at Hughes and said, "That's right. Alive and kicking. Thanks for asking."

Frowning, Hogan looked again at Newkirk and then back at Hughes. What were they playing at? But then he saw, hidden behind a friendly smile, a cold look in the young Englishman's eyes and an answering one mirrored in Hughes'. Perhaps this was a familiar game, for Hughes simply nodded and without further word, swept past everyone and entered the officers' room.

Hogan stared in the direction of Hughes, then turned back to Newkirk. Before he could ask what that little scene was all about, however, the rest of the men from the cooler entered and the barracks descended into a chaotic round of hugs, back slaps, and handshakes.

Chapman's entrance was especially exuberant when he caught sight of Newkirk and laughed aloud over his friend's good health. He swooped in and picked Newkirk up in big hug until Newkirk pushed him back with several pointed comments about the ripe smell coming from his friend. The twinkle in both their eyes, however, was a testament to the joy they both obviously felt as the close friends were finally reunited.

The colonel grinned at their happiness as well as the warm greetings exchanged by all the men. He welcomed back each of the returnees himself and hung out with the group for a while before finally deciding he shouldn't put off greeting Hughes any longer. He retreated to his room and closed the door, noticing Hughes standing by the window, staring out of it.

"Hello John," he said neutrally.

"Robert," Hughes acknowledged as he turned around.

The two senior officers looked at each other for a long moment, neither one speaking.

Hogan's thoughts and feelings were muddled as he looked at his fellow officer. Here was a man who should be his closest ally in the camp, and yet all he felt for him was disgust and distrust. How was he going to continue with his plans with this albatross sharing his room?

Not ready to address anything so deep, however, Hogan asked, "So, what was that about?" assuming it would be an easy topic.

Hughes walked over to his bunk and dropped down onto it. "What was what about?" he asked tiredly, bending down to pull his trunk out from under the bed.

"That nonsense with Newkirk. 'Welcome back,' 'still alive.' Seemed like a pretty cordial exchange all considering."

Hughes shrugged as he rummaged in his trunk. "We're English. It's called restraint."

"Restraint? Last time I saw you, you'd just finished beating him," Hogan pointed out mildly, not wanting to get into any deep conversations at the moment, but likewise not interested in pussyfooting around the truth.

Hughes lifted his head and stared hard at Hogan. When he spoke, however, it was with the same mild tone.

"The world would be a far better place without that man, but this is not the time to do anything about it."

"Let's get something clear right here and right now," Hogan said, shifting his tone as he took the opportunity to lay down some rules. "It will _never_ be the time for you to do anything about it. You ever touch one of my men again, you'll regret being born. And that goes for someone else doing your dirty work, too. My men are _off limits_ to you and your thugs."

Hughes didn't lose his cool, I-can't-be-bothered-to-get-upset attitude. Over the last month Hogan had forgotten how annoying and condescending that could be. The British officer did, however, stand up pull his uniform jacket straight.

"I'm grateful camp discipline is now your problem," he sniffed. "As I warned you, with your coddling attitude, no doubt the men will be an undisciplined rabble in no time, with that pathetic excuse of a corporal leading the way," Hughes said with cold satisfaction. "But fortunately, _I_ won't be the one responsible for addressing it."

"That's right. If there's a discipline problem, I'll take care of it. But for your information, I haven't been using your strong arm tactics for the last month and Corporal Newkirk hasn't caused a minute's worth of trouble." If Hogan chose to ignore the times Newkirk had been out of line, as well as the fact that for a good portion of that time Newkirk hadn't been strong enough to cause trouble—well, that was his business.

Hughes just shrugged one shoulder. "That only means the wastrel has been laying low for now. Creating a false sense of security."

Hogan shook his head. "You really do have it in for him, don't you? Why?"

"What does it matter? He is what he is and I recognize it. That's all."

Hogan shook his head. "Uh uh. There's more to it. What did he do that you just can't let go?" He hadn't planned on having this conversation right now, but was happy to push it a bit if it would give him some better insights into how to deal with any future hostility between Hughes and Newkirk.

Hughes turned away from Hogan and bent down to push his trunk back under the bunk, but not before Hogan saw a flash of hatred in his eyes.

"This is personal, isn't it?" Hogan realized.

Hughes stiffened, then finally turned around and faced Hogan again. After another long moment, he answered simply, "Yes."

"Yes?"

Hogan didn't really expect his British counterpart to say anything else, but maybe his time in the cooler had worn Hughes down, for instead of brushing Hogan off, Hughes asked suddenly, "Do you have siblings?"

"No," Hogan answered, annoyed the man was changing the subject.

"Then you will never understand. You cannot understand how protective one feels."

Hogan frowned in confusion. Maybe he wasn't changing the subject. Did Newkirk do something to one of the men Hughes had taken under his wing? If that was the case, Hogan could relate. During his time in the military, some of his men had certainly evoked that 'big brother' kind of feeling in him. "I've had squadron mates as close to me as brothers," Hogan offered, "Men I would do anything for. Men who I would die for."

"It's not the same," Hughes dismissed.

"What isn't?" Hogan asked, curious to see where he was going with this.

"A mate. A fellow officer. They aren't the same as blood."

"What are you talking about then?"

Hughes eyes flared. "I'm talking about a sister. My beautiful, beloved Louise. He ruined her!"

"What are you talking about? Who ruined her?"

Instead of clarifying, Hughes stood up and began to pace.

"She was so young. So beautiful. She'd just come out into society and oh, how the men flocked to her. She was being courted by some of the finest catches in London. Important men…titled men were after her," Hughes said intensely.

Hogan thought it sounded like she was a market commodity, but didn't comment, even more curious what Hughes' sister had to do with anything.

"My father had already been approached by six different men wishing to marry my sister—_six_ marriage proposals, any of which would have raised the family's standing—when…when…" Hughes swallowed, then finished hoarsely, "when she confessed that she was with child." After a silent moment, Hughes shook his head in disgust. "The family was distraught. These things aren't accepted. At least, not in the circles _my_ family belongs to." He glanced at Hogan in disdain, as if to imply that he wouldn't be surprised if Hogan's family was full of illegitimate children. "My father insisted she name the father so he could force the marriage. A hasty wedding and an 'early' childbirth are never ideal, but the situation was salvageable." He sniffed. "However Louise refused. She wouldn't reveal him. Father did all he could to find out through other means, but the need for discretion prevented him digging too far. Then of course time marched on and eventually it was too late—she'd begun to show visible signs. And that's when we found out about _him_."

"Who?" Hogan asked again.

"The scum of the earth Corporal Newkirk. Who else were we talking about?"

Wait. Was he saying Newkirk…Newkirk and his _sister_? Surely not. Hogan shook his head, trying to connect the dots.

"Newkirk?" Hogan repeated disbelievingly, expecting Hughes to deny the connection, certain he was misunderstanding the Englishman.

Hughes, however, snarled, "Yes, Newkirk! The black hearted con-artist cockney with a fair face and rough charm who knew precisely how to target a young girl with fanciful ideas of adventure."

Hogan was stupefied. Never in a million years would he have guessed that this was the cause of Hughes' hatred. He said nothing, however, acknowledging to himself that now he was dying to hear more and hoping Hughes wouldn't stop the story. Newkirk and Hughes sister! It was inconceivable, pardon the pun.

Thankfully, Hughes was on a roll. "She'd slipped out to meet him. That's how we found out. Father had had her followed, so they found…_him_. My God! If only I'd been the one to see them together. I would have ended his miserable existence then and there! She was brought back home and finally confessed that it was that piece of _filth_ who had ruined her." There was pure venom in his tone and Hogan was thinking that Hughes wasn't exaggerating when he said he would have killed Newkirk on the spot if he'd found them together.

"Word got out," Hughes continued, "I don't know how, and mother and father …they were devastated."

Hogan reflected that the situation probably didn't do much for the unfortunate Louise either.

"The family was the laughingstock of society. Our younger sister's chance for a decent marriage was destroyed. Our names were dropped from invitation lists, friends were suddenly too busy to visit. It so distressed mother that she had to retire to the country."

Hogan found the small glimpse into British society interesting. An unmarried woman having a child wasn't socially acceptable in the U.S. either, but thankfully the reaction back home wasn't quite so extreme.

"To add insult to injury," Hughes growled, pointing at Hogan, "do you know that he had the gall to come sniffing around our home? Just like the dog that he was, he came right up to our door and asked to see her! I _was_ there that time but the coward ran off as soon as he saw me, before I could give him the thrashing he deserved."

Considering what Hughes had done to Newkirk here, Hogan could only imagine.

Hughes dropped suddenly into his chair, his angry diatribe making way for solemn, terse tones as his energy seemed to seep out of him.

"But Louise, my poor lost Louise…she ran off that night and it took us months to find her. By that time it was too late. By that time she was no longer the beautiful, playful girl we knew and loved. She had grown hard, bitter. She was barely recognizable, living in squalor. You see the cur didn't even have the decency to marry her. He'd left her when he realized she wasn't his ticket to the good life. She was too ashamed to come home, so she was living hand to mouth, stitching and mending to earn barely enough to eat. Father had her brought home and we tried to nurse her back to health. It was soon after that she had the child and we thought somehow we all might be able to recover, but the damage was done. Louise became a societal pariah. No decent woman would associate with her, the mother of a mongrel bastard. Then after one particularly nasty confrontation with a woman Louise had always considered a close friend, my sister took the baby and ran off….we never found her. Did hear about him again, though, chasing after another young girl from a good family. We were able to warn the girl's family, but saving her did little to ease the loss of our Louise..."

For a moment Hughes' expression was so bleak as his thoughts trailed off that Hogan felt sorry for him.

"John…" Hogan began, but then stopped when he wasn't sure what to say. How do you respond to a story like that? He was dismayed by Newkirk's callous treatment of Hughes' sister, but that didn't excuse the nearly lethal beating given to the corporal.

"It's been a month since I had a shower," Hughes said and abruptly stood up, cutting off the conversation before anything Hogan might have said. "I think I'll take one now."

Matching actions to words, the group captain grabbed his shower gear out from his trunk and almost ran out of the room, leaving Hogan standing in the floor of their room, feeling conflicted by the whole sorry tale he'd just heard. Newkirk's shameful behavior towards women didn't mean he couldn't be a good soldier of course, but it did speak to his overall character and Hogan didn't like what it said about the man. The more he thought about it, the more disgusted he became. Nothing excused Hughes' behavior, but Hogan found himself glad that he hadn't asked Newkirk to join his core team yet. He supposed this was his own fault for not following up on the less appealing stories of Newkirk's character. It served him right for not being more thorough.

Scowling, Hogan walked over to the window, staring out of it just like Hughes had a short while ago.

Hughes…Hogan took a deep breath. Then again, how much faith should he put in Hughes' story? Hogan had let himself rush to judgment before when it came to Newkirk. He shouldn't fall into the trap of pre-judging the young Englishman again without at least hearing Newkirk's side of things. Not this time.

No time like the present, Hogan entered the main room with the intent of calling Newkirk in to talk, but the scene in the barracks stopped him. Listening to Hughes, he'd blocked out the sounds coming from the other room, but now he saw men the gathered around their newly-returned comrades, joking and laughing as they welcomed their friends back into the fold.

Hogan's eyes sought his target and saw Newkirk standing behind Chapman, an arm over his shoulder. Sensing the colonel's regard, Newkirk turned his head in Hogan's direction and smiled and nodded. Then Newkirk turned back to the group and joined the others as they laughed at something Chapman was saying.

Hogan relaxed his shoulders and leaned against doorway. This wasn't the time to get the story. He wasn't going to interrupt his men's reunion. He stood there for a while instead, soaking in the warmth of camaraderie as his men caught up with each other. He needed to get to the bottom of this issue with Newkirk, but for now, Hogan was just content to see his men happy.

A/N: Slllooowwwllyyy writing the rest of the story. Haven't abandoned it (and never will…I will NOT leave a story incomplete), but any momentum I once had seems to have disappeared. This chapter is kind of short, but I needed to set the stage for wrapping up some of the loose ends. Thanks to all who are kind enough (and patient enough) to keep following my story.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Truth be told, in the end it didn't matter. A full day after Hogan had listened to Hughes' condemnation of Newkirk, the American colonel had decided that he was glad he hadn't found the chance to confront the young Englishman about the accusations. Things had been too chaotic with the re-introduction of the men in the barracks to find time for a private conversation with Newkirk and he was grateful. Yes, he was grateful as it meant he hadn't said something he would regret later, for after some serious reflection, Hogan realized that what he'd heard wouldn't change the fact that he still wanted the man on his team. True, Hogan found the behavior described by Hughes low and distasteful, but in the end, he was looking for soldiers, not boy scouts, and past indiscretions didn't negate the fact that Newkirk would be a real asset to his team.

Additionally, there was always the chance that Hughes was mistaken and Newkirk wasn't the man responsible for his sister's situation. It was unlikely, given Hughes' certainty, but still Hogan allowed himself the small hope that once he found the right time to speak to Newkirk, he'd find that it all had been a huge misunderstanding.

He shook his head. That kind of thinking was unproductive. Any lingering doubts or hopes about Newkirk's character had to be put aside. Again, it didn't matter what Newkirk had done in the past if the man's talents could help end the war. _That_ was what he needed to focus on.

It was with that thought that Hogan entered Barracks 2 in the early afternoon. He'd made a decision…it was time to officially invite Newkirk to join his core team.

When Hogan walked in, Newkirk was right in the middle of a boisterous group, sharing humorous anecdotes with his newly returned friends.

"…and then ol' Billy Dukovich over in Barracks 7 opened Walt Carpenter's storage box. 'e was looking for a pair of socks e'd lent 'im, but instead of socks found that the lad 'ad saved every one of 'is chocolate wrappers…the box was full of 'em! Then Billy started pulling them out, one by one and Walt comes over and….….…"

Laughter lighting his face Newkirk stopped his grinning recital of a ridiculous fiasco he'd witnessed as he noticed the colonel silently waiting.

"'ello Guv'nor. You need something?"

Hogan nodded. "Need to talk to you."

Newkirk nodded. "Righto, colonel. Back in a tick lads."

His eyes still lit with merriment, Newkirk followed the colonel to his room and closed the door behind them.

"Something I can do for you, colonel?" he asked.

Unwanted, niggling doubt resurfaced, but, hoping he was making the right decision, Hogan motioned to a chair and said, "Have a seat," taking his own chair.

Hogan wished he hadn't let tension color his tone, as he'd clearly sounded less friendly than intended. For when he looked at Newkirk, who had taken the indicated chair, the young Englishman's happy expression had vanished.

"This isn't a friendly conversation then, is it? Newkirk asked. "'ave I done something wrong?" He started to frown. "Look, if this is about the shoe, in my defense I want to say that…"

"No, no," Hogan interrupted, though making a mental note to find out later _what_ shoe. Forcing aside any lingering doubt, Hogan smiled to put the man at ease and said, "Nothing like that. I wanted to talk to you about the team. The special team. I know you've been talking to the fellas and wanted to chat with you about it."

Newkirk's expression was puzzled. "You want to 'ear what I think about the team, or about me talking to the lads about it?"

Hogan let out a small laugh. "What you think about the team," he clarified.

Newkirk relaxed back into the chair and smiled. "Now I was wondering when you'd get around to asking old Newkirk. I've been 'ere longer than most and there's nothing about this camp that I can't tell you," he said smugly. "What is it you want to know?"

Hogan smiled again. "I'm not asking about your knowledge, although we will get to that some other time. I'm asking if you'd like to join us. To be a part of the inner circle. Part of the team that takes on the toughest missions. You've got some talents that I can really use."

Newkirk went still. "Wait, what? You want me to be on the special team? The one that does the missions?"

Hogan nodded. "You'd be a great addition."

The corporal sunk back in his chair with a worried look. "Well blimey." He paused as if searching for the right words. "Look, colonel. It's not that I don't appreciate it. I mean, you're really straight up to want me on your team, me being the black sheep of Stalag 13 and all and you knowing I'm the sort what can get into a spot of trouble now and again, but…"

Hogan frowned. He'd thought Newkirk would jump at the chance to join his friends, if for no other reason than to make sure that Hogan kept his word about not risking any of them unnecessarily.

When Newkirk didn't finish his thought, Hogan prompted, "But?"

Newkirk huffed, as if not wanting to continue. When Hogan merely raised an eyebrow, waiting, the young Englishman finally added, "But you said those gents—the ones on your team—well, the plan is for them to do the missions outside the wire, right?"

Hogan nodded. "That's right. Once we get established, there's a lot we can do in this area."

Newkirk looked even more worried. Swallowing, he questioned, "Then you're asking me to be one of your spies, then? To leave the camp to cause mischief for the Jerries."

Not knowing where the confusion was, once again Hogan nodded. "Yes. I know it will be dangerous, but if we want to…"

Newkirk was shaking his head and cut him off, "Then me answer is no. I won't do it. I'm not going outside the wire. I'll do the stuff 'ere in camp. Forge documents and the like if you need, but nothing outside," he said, sounding firm but ashamed as he refused to look Hogan in the eye.

Not expecting the flat refusal, Hogan was taken aback. "Look, I know there's risks, but a chance to strike the enemy from deep within their own territory could make a big difference." Searching for a reason for Newkirk's response, he asked, "Are you still concerned that I'll risk the men needlessly? I promise you that…" but Newkirk was shaking his head vehemently, so Hogan broke off. "Then what's the problem? Newkirk, you've heard me talking for days about the missions I'm planning and haven't raised any objections. You have skills that no one else has and I could really use you. Why don't you want to be a part of it?"

Still refusing to meet Hogan's eyes, Newkirk shrugged. "Never thought you'd ask _me_ to be one of those going outside the camp." He flicked a quick look at Hogan, then snapped his mouth shut and turned his face away again.

Hogan was starting to get irritated. This was not how he expected this conversation to go. He thought he'd been generous in taking a chance on the corporal despite Hughes' revelations and now he was finding himself almost having to beg the man to join his team. Scowling, he said, "That doesn't answer the question. Why don't you want to be a part of it?"

Newkirk risked another look at his commanding officer, and then seeing the scowl, finally faced him squarely. Hogan could see the man's whole demeanor change as if the Englishman had suddenly decided that _he_ should be the one getting angry.

Newkirk stood up and folded his arms in front of him, his attitude one of defiance. Tight-lipped, he announced, "I said I'm not going outside camp. That should answer your question. You can't force me to go. You can't force me to be a spy."

The colonel took the answer and the attitude badly. In truth, he was deeply disappointed. In Newkirk for revealing a streak of…of either outright cowardice or at least a selfish sort of self-preservation that disgusted the soldier in him. And in himself for once more misjudging Newkirk's character. If his first view of the English corporal had been unfairly harsh, his latest assessment seemed equally skewed too far in the other direction. He'd been rather pleased with his own open-minded decision to overlook Newkirk's obvious flaws and offer him a position on his team, and to have the Englishman throw that back in his face and turn him down flat was an affront.

As his disappointment turned to anger, Hogan glared at the corporal and allowed his feelings to guide his words.

"Didn't take you for a coward," Hogan said flatly.

Hogan felt a pinprick of satisfaction when his missile hit his target and Newkirk flinched.

Recovering quickly, Newkirk gave an ugly huff and said, "Coward? What do you know? Well sod you anyway."

Hogan felt a rush of anger mixed with a momentary surprise that he'd forgotten just how insubordinate Newkirk could be when provoked. Hogan wanted to lash back, to put the insolent man in his place. He opened his mouth to do just that but then caught himself. _What was he_ _doing_? He was better than this. He was a better commander than this. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He didn't want to go down this path again with Newkirk, dealing with a disillusioned young man's bitter anger. And in all fairness, once Hogan took another breath, he acknowledged he was at fault here. It was wrong of him to call Newkirk names. Not everyone was cut out to be a spy and he should have accepted Newkirk's answer. Disappointment was no excuse for him to lash out at the young man.

Squelching his anger, Hogan finally said simply, "I apologize."

Clearly expecting some other kind of response from Hogan, Newkirk had already started to snap back his next sally, "And 'ere I thought that you…" but then broke off in confusion. "…come again?"

Hogan sighed, irritated with himself for bungling things. He thought he had been past making stupid mistakes once he'd accepted his situation as a prisoner. He was genuinely disappointed in Newkirk's refusal, but that was no excuse. He needed to fix this.

"Sit down, corporal," he said quietly. He gestured with his hand and added, "please," when Newkirk looked at him suspiciously.

Newkirk carefully sat back down, obeying for the moment but looking poised to jump back up if needed.

"I'm sorry," Hogan repeated. "I shouldn't have called you a coward. You're right…I can't force you to join the team and moreover I want volunteers only for my missions. If you don't want to go I shouldn't judge you for it. I'm disappointed because we could really use you, and I'm not quite ready to accept your decision as final, but we should talk about it. There's no need for the conversation to get ugly and that was my fault."

If anything, Newkirk looked even more suspicious now. After a moment, he asked, "Why the about face?" Then tacked on "…sir," as if tentatively making his own attempt to get them back on firm ground.

Hogan dropped in his own chair with a sigh. "Let's just do this man to man again, shall we? I want to clear the air, so you can forget the 'sir' for now." He shook off any remaining ill will he felt towards Newkirk and gave a small laugh. "You know, I haven't had to have any of these kinds of conversations with any of the other men, except you."

Hogan could see Newkirk's shoulders relaxing a fraction, although the man still maintained an air of guardedness. Still, Hogan was pleased at the rapid way things were getting back on track, especially when Newkirk shook his head and wryly offered, "must be me charmin' personality. It's been known to set people off."

Hogan grinned, appreciating Newkirk's willingness to make his own effort. Then he cocked his head, studying the tense English corporal sitting in front of him. Nothing about Newkirk had ever indicated that the man would be afraid of dangerous work. In fact, quite the opposite. Hogan had had a few qualms about having the man on the team because he thought Newkirk might be too reckless, not afraid. So had he misjudged Newkirk's character again, or was there something else going on here?

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I'm not pushing you to join the team," he began, "well, maybe a little. I really want you, so help me understand the problem…what bothers you so much about leaving the camp?"

Newkirk looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. "Colonel," he shook his head. "You won't understand. You don't know 'ow it is."

"Then explain it to me."

"I'm not changing me mind."

"I'm not asking you to. Or at least I'm asking you to think about it more. Maybe if I understand what you're thinking, we can figure out some way to make it work. I'm serious about needing your skills. There's no one else in the camp quite like you."

This finally elicited a small smile from the tense young corporal. "That would be a good thing, I've been told."

Hogan smiled back kindly. "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, the fact remains that you have certain talents that could make all the difference in our operations. So talk to me, Peter. What's bothering you?"

Maybe it was Hogan's use of his first name, for when Newkirk looked at Hogan he was suddenly wearing a different expression.

"Colonel," he said plaintively. "You just don't understand. If I go outside the wire…if I'm out there…even with the other lads counting on me…well…it's just that I'm…I'm just…I'm afraid. Afraid that…"

The door opened and Hogan actually gasped at the phenomenally bad timing of Hughes entering the room, causing Newkirk to abruptly clam up and glare at the newcomer.

"Hughes!" Hogan said in surprise.

"Oh…sorry old boy," Hughes said, looking at Newkirk distastefully before turning back to Hogan. "Didn't know you had company."

Recovering himself, Hogan sent his own glare to Hughes. "Yes, that was the reason for the closed door," Hogan pointed out. They'd had and agreement…if either of them closed the door it meant that they needed privacy and the other should knock before entering. It allowed the two officers to have private talks with the men, as well as being simple courtesy. The fact that Hughes had just barged in probably meant that he was well aware of who had been in with Hogan.

"Again, my pardon," was all that Hughes offered.

Hogan looked at his British second-in-command, but Hughes didn't take the hint and leave. Instead he went over to his bunk and plopped down on it, picking up a book to read.

"John, I'm in the middle of something here," Hogan said testily.

"Oh," Hughes acted surprised. "Do you want me to leave?"

Before Hogan could answer, however, Newkirk jumped up. "It's all right. I was just going."

"Newkirk…" Hogan protested.

But Newkirk shook his head. "I already told you my answer, colonel. The whys don't really matter, do they?"

"They matter to me," Hogan said, frustrated. "This is important."

"What's going on?" Hughes asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

Newkirk looked at Hogan questioningly. By tacit agreement, no one had yet filled Hughes in on Hogan's operation and so it fell to the American colonel to determine the response.

'Nothing you need to concern yourself with at the moment," said Hogan, peevishly deciding that if Hughes thought he could just barge in and interrupt an important discussion, then the British officer could stay in the dark for all he cared.

But Hughes didn't drop it. Instead, he sat up and put down the book.

"Is this about what I told you?" he said, his voice turning frosty. "Did you talk to him about it?"

Hogan hissed in frustration. He did _not_ want to discuss that right now with Newkirk. Things were teetering on a knife's edge as it was. If he truly wanted Newkirk's skills for his team, bringing up another controversial issue wasn't the way to smooth things over.

"No," said Hogan coldly. "We were talking about something different. Something _private_."

Hughes blanched at Hogan's clearly hostile tone, perhaps remembering not too long ago when Hogan had threatened him after he'd been found beating the very same man who stood by the door, looking more and more like he was about to bolt.

"Hughes, give us a minute," Hogan ordered. "Newkirk, sit down."

Newkirk approached the chair as if it was about to bite, but gingerly sat down, obeying the colonel's order to Hogan's relief. Now if Hughes would just leave.

Hughes stood up when Hogan turned a steely gaze on him, pointedly waiting for the man to leave. The British officer walked to the door and almost opened it, but then stopped and asked again, "You haven't said anything to him about it? Are you planning to?"

"No," Hogan repeated, irritated. "I haven't. And I haven't decided if I will, but right now I have something else that I need to take care of, so if you don't mind…"

"What's 'e talking about, colonel?" Newkirk asked.

Hogan groaned internally. Now was not the time to open this particular can of worms. "Nothing," he said, hoping both Newkirk and Hughes would drop it.

No such luck.

"It can't be nothing. What, did 'e tell you something about me? Is that it?" Newkirk's gaze narrowed and then it morphed with a new realization. "That is it! I knew it! You 'aven't looked at me square since 'e got back. 'e said something about me you don't like, didn't 'e? That's what 'ad you looking at me sideways, isn't it?."

This time, Hogan groaned out loud, caught off guard by Newkirk's shrewd observation—he thought he'd done a better job of hiding his disquiet after Hughes' revelations.

"Newkirk…"

He was about to deny it, but his mind flashed traitorously to the mental image he'd come up with for Hughes' poor sister and he hesitated for a moment too long.

Newkirk seemed to take it as confirmation. His gaze darkened as he said tightly, "Well, isn't this a fine kettle o' fish. Shoulda known."

"Newkirk," Hogan protested again. He had planned on easing in to the conversation someday, or maybe never at all, but Newkirk didn't look like he'd accept a brushoff. Deciding a partial truth was in order, Hogan finished. "Yes, Group Captain Hughes some things to me, but I decided it doesn't matter."

Hogan forgot to take into consideration what those words would mean to Hughes. The moment they were out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back, but it was too late. Dammit, he was putting his foot in his mouth today!

"Doesn't matter? It doesn't matter!" Hughes snarled.

"John, I'm sorry, I don't mean it that way," Hogan said, trying to fend off any more complications.

He guessed it just wasn't his day when, instead of Hughes responding to him, the group captain stalked over to Newkirk and pointed his finger in his face. Hogan surged to his feet, ready to tackle the British officer if he made one move to attack Newkirk.

Hughes didn't do anything more than stand there, however, his finger, indeed his whole body shaking with rage.

"My beautiful Louise was lost because of this man. A sweet, innocent girl's life ruined for what? A passing fancy? Just what was her life worth to you?"

Newkirk's mouth had dropped open in shock. "What?"

"Don't play innocent!"

Newkirk looked at Hogan and asked, "Colonel, what's 'e on about? Just 'oo is Louise?"

Hogan was surprised at the relief that washed through him. He thought he'd made up his mind that he didn't care about Newkirk's past, but now he was realizing that it did make a difference to him if Newkirk was innocent of Hughes' charges.

"His sister," Hogan answered. "Are you saying you don't know her?" he asked. Now that the subject was on the floor, he wanted to confirm his hopes.

"Sister?" Newkirk repeated blankly. "What's your sister got to do with me?" he asked, turning to Hughes.

Hughes' face turned splotchy with fury.

"You're denying it? Denying it to my face!? I _saw_ you. Saw you at my home asking about her. Trying to get her back, I suppose. Or more likely trying to use her to get money from my family."

Hogan watched Newkirk's face drain of any color and with a sinking feeling, he realized this wasn't heading where he'd hoped.

"Lou? Louise is your sister?" Newkirk breathed, his words almost inaudible in his shock.

"So you didn't know," Hughes snarled. "I'd wondered if you'd seen me."

Newkirk shook his head, as if grasping at a way to shake off a nightmare. "No. It can't be the same girl. 'er name was Louise Somerville."

"Somerville was my mother's maiden name," Hughes said icily, controlling himself now." No doubt Louise used it to try to protect the family. Not that she succeeded," he added bitterly.

Hogan looked from one man to the other, not sure where his loyalties lie at the moment. He'd step in if things turned violent, but for now he decided to let things play out.

"But…but you can't be 'er brother. She's…you're… It _can't_ be," Newkirk stuttered, chalk white.

"Maybe now you'll understand why the very sight of you sickens me. How could you do that to her? You piece of _filth_!"

Hogan watched the two, suddenly feeling like a voyeur. This was an intensely private matter between the two, but there was no way he was going to leave Newkirk alone with Hughes. He might have sympathy for Hughes, but he wasn't going to let him lay one finger on the corporal. Nor, for that matter, let Newkirk attack Hughes. That had to be a consideration as well. But then again Newkirk wasn't reacting like Hogan had expected. He'd supposed Newkirk would mouth off with some pointed comments about Louise or about Hughes family…anything to strike back at his long-time tormenter. But instead, Newkirk seemed to be in shock. Almost lost.

"Is…is she alright?"

Hughes made an animalistic sound of pain. "Is she alright? How should I know? She disappeared after the baby came. Didn't you know? You mean she didn't run back to you?"

Newkirk shook his head, looking more lost than before, if that was possible.

"No!" he protested. "Why would she come to me? I tried to 'elp, but what could I do. I could barely keep bread on me own plate…what could I do for a young mother with a wee one. I told 'er to go '_ome_!"

"Well that didn't work for very long, now did it?"

"I don't understand," cried Newkirk. "Why did she leave?"

"Presumably to go back to her lover!" spat Hughes. "Why else?"

Newkirk shook his head in denial. "No. I told 'er it wasn't right for 'er. The baby needed…..wait, the baby. What 'appened to 'er baby?"

"Oh, _now_ you care?"

"Please..."

"It was a boy. She took it with her when she disappeared. And you know what she named it? _Peter_," he spat.

"Peter?!" Newkirk looked as if he'd been suckerpunched. "But _why_? She was going to name it after 'er father if it was a boy. Never Peter. She wouldn't do that. It isn't _right_. She said she would name a boy Albert."

Hughes faltered, appearing taken aback that Louise had wanted to name her child for their father. His next words lost their harshness. "Father wouldn't let her, I expect," he admitted more reasonably. But then his face regained its anger and he said bitterly, "I would have thought you would be pleased to have the baby carry your name."

Newkirk shook his head blankly and dropped his head. "No. It isn't right."

"What isn't right is that a lovely young girl's life was ruined for nothing more than a wastrel's need to scratch his itch. Maybe that kind of behavior is accepted where you come from, but in my world a couple marries before they have children."

Hogan was glad to see a spark of some life in Newkirk's eyes as he protested, "'ere now, me parents were married. I'm no bastard."

"That's a matter of opinion," Hughes said with disgust.

Hogan wondered how Newkirk would react to Hughes' provocation, but the normally cocky young corporal seemed to descend once more into disbelief. "Why would she name 'er boy after _me_? She said she'd call it Albert if it were a boy. Or at least she could 'ave called it John after you. Or Charlie maybe. Why 'Peter'?" He looked up at Hughes with an unexpected sheen of tears in his eyes. "Do you think she was looking for me when she ran off? Did she say she was?"

Hogan, still feeling like he was intruding on a private conversation, nonetheless looked at Hughes, intrigued to hear his answer. He was surprised when he saw, though, that Hughes was looking at Newkirk blankly. Then the British man shook his head as if for the first time, Hughes seemed to finally be _seeing_ Newkirk. Seeing the young man's obvious anguish. Not the despoiler of his sister, but an upset young man who maybe wasn't as evil as he'd thought. Hughes features softened as he said quietly, "I don't know. I suppose she might have and then was too humiliated to return when she didn't find you." Hughes hesitated, then asked, as if the words were almost too painful to say, "Did you love her?"

Newkirk shook his head, then nodded, apparently not able to admit it himself. Tears still glistening, he said, "Maybe. I don't know. Yeah. She was too grand for the likes of me, but she was like no one I'd ever met, and I couldn't 'elp but love 'er." He gave a wan smile. "She could make you feel like a king, you know, just by smiling at you. And 'er laugh would clear away all the cobwebs in your 'eart, lighting up your life and making you 'appy, no matter what your day 'ad been like. And she was so clever. Knew just the right words to cut you to the quick if you'd been sassy or to pick you right up if you needed it. Didn't take no guff from no one neither. Plucky lass and pretty as a penny. Couldn't see what she saw in us, but she liked being around us, she said. Didn't like all the rules in your world," he added with an apologetic glance at Hughes.

Hogan, too, looked at Hughes. The man looked positively wounded to hear Newkirk's glowing description of his sister. Even Hogan, who'd never met the girl, felt a loss knowing of her eventual downfall.

"She was always rebellious," Hughes said, as if to himself. Then he looked back at Newkirk, "but the joy she brought to life could take your breath away."

Newkirk nodded. "I can't believe she's gone," he whispered. He blinked and a tear finally rolled down his cheek. "But why would she call her lad 'Peter?'" he asked forlornly. "Why would she do that?" he seemed to beg Hughes.

Hogan watched Hughes with fascination as the man visibly tried to regain his anger. Eventually, though, Hughes sighed and said in defeat, "I suppose she must have loved you too."

Newkirk looked up at Hughes with wounded eyes. "But she loved Charlie. Not me," he protested.

Both Hughes and Hogan looked blankly at Newkirk.

"Who's Charlie?" Hogan asked, when Hughes didn't.

Newkirk shrugged helplessly. "'er fella."

Hughes frowned in incomprehension. "Her fellow? What does that mean?"

Newkirk didn't appear to understand. "You know, the man she ran off with? The baby's father?"

Hogan wasn't sure of Hughes' reaction, but his own was pure disbelief. "What?" he asked. "Aren't you the baby's father?"

The accusation seemed to pull Newkirk out of his own shock and sadness, for he wiped the tear off his cheek and frowned. "'ere now. What's that? Why would you say something like that? I would never 'ave taken a tumble with 'er. She was a lady!"

Hogan chanced a glance at Hughes. He wasn't surprised to see the man's mouth opening and closing, but no words coming out.

Speaking where Hughes couldn't, Hogan said calmly, "I'm sorry, Newkirk, but I misunderstood. I thought since you knew his sister, went to her house in search for her, and said you loved her, that you were saying _you_ were the man who took her away."

Newkirk, not seeming to realize that Hughes had obviously had the same impression, looked indignantly at Hogan. "After Charlie run off I tried to 'elp 'er. She wouldn't go 'ome, so I got 'er a job 'elping at me mum's dress shop. Not a lot of money in it, but with that and a little bit I could give 'er when I 'ad extra, she didn't starve. And I went by 'er 'ouse to see if she were alright when I found out she went 'ome. Wanted 'er to know that she 'ad friends thinking about 'er. That's all."

Both Hogan and Newkirk turned to Hughes when the man made a choking sound.

"John?" Hogan questioned.

"He…he wasn't…she wasn't…I…I…" The man wasn't able to complete a thought.

Hogan brought over his chair and put it behind Hughes. "Sit down," he said kindly.

When the man had finally collected his thoughts again, he looked up at Hogan, his face a mask of horror. "My God! What did I do?" Hughes asked. He looked at Newkirk, then back at Hogan. "What did I do?"

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/N: Sorry folks. Just one crummy little scene. But once more it had to be done to move the story along. At least I made sure they all now know that Newkirk wasn't the bad guy. As always, thanks to reviewers and everyone who hasn't given up reading my SLOOWW story!


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"My God…what did I do?" Hughes mumbled a third time.

Hughes locked his gaze on Newkirk, his eyes boring into the young man he had wrongly persecuted from the minute they first met.

The subject of his gaze frowned as he appeared to connect the dots himself and realized what Hughes was implying.

"You mean that's it? All this time, _that's_ why you 'ated me? Not because where I'm from but because you thought that I…me an' your sister…?" His earlier shock gone, Newkirk huffed and crossed his arms.

Hogan almost smiled at the picture of disgruntled indignation. In his shoes, Hogan would have been furious, but it seemed like Newkirk was more annoyed than anything.

Any lightening of the mood was quickly negated, however, with Hughes' next words. His eyes never leaving his fellow countryman, he said in a choking voice, "I am so sorry, corporal. I am so, so desperately sorry."

Hogan looked at Newkirk for his reaction to the deep, heartfelt apology.

Newkirk rolled his eyes and grimaced. A moment later, he inhaled deeply and then forced his breath out. "What's done is done," he finally said.

Hogan wasn't sure what Newkirk meant…and clearly neither did Hughes, for he said hesitantly, "I know an apology can never be…"

Newkirk stopped him with a raised hand. "I mean it," he said. "Just…don't." He stood abruptly. "Look, I understand, okay? I knew Louise." He turned quickly to Hogan and tensed as if getting ready to run. "Colonel, can I go? I mean, am I dismissed? I just…I want…"

Hogan frowned, remembering why he'd had Newkirk in his office in the first place. That conversation had been entirely derailed. Annoyed that nothing had been resolved, he agreed it was time for Newkirk to exit and said with authority, "Of course. We're not finished with that earlier conversation, but we can talk about it later. You're dismissed."

Newkirk was out the door before Hogan finished.

Hogan waited for the door to close before he took a deep breath and turned to Hughes. "John…" He shook his head. What to say? Hughes had tormented Newkirk, nearly killed him in fact, but even so things didn't seem quite as cut and dry as before.

"I can never hold my head up again," whispered Hughes, obviously gutted. "I was so sure of myself…never questioned what I was doing, certain I had been given this opportunity for a reason. I expect I was, but not for the one I thought. Maybe I was supposed to get to know him and learn that a good man can come from the worst of places. And…and a bad man from the best. Maybe I was supposed to learn tolerance. That I should look after all my men, regardless of who they are, where they're from, or what they've done. Like…like Newkirk looked after Louise. No, I can't face him, Hogan. I can never face _any_ of the men again."

"John…" once again Hogan paused, but this time out of annoyance. Hughes deserved to feel lower than dirt, but he also needed to man up and atone for his behavior, not run from it. "Look, Newkirk himself said it. What's done is done. I'm not going to pretend you don't have a lot of ground to make up, but you've made a start by apologizing, and you owe it to all of the men to not lose your head. They need both of us to get them through this war and the best thing you can for Newkirk is to be the kind of leader they all need."

Hughes shook his head and looked at Hogan entreatingly. "But you don't understand. You don't understand what we did. What _I_ did that day."

Hogan's thoughts flew back to the day Newkirk was released from the cooler. In his mind's eye, he could vividly see the young corporal entering the barracks, stunned, frozen, looking nothing like the rude troublemaker from the cooler. And then the scene in his room a couple days later, when he saw for the first time the signs of the beating Newkirk had suffered. And finally the unforgettable picture of Hughes beating him again. Hogan knew what he needed about all of it.

"John, I'm sure you…"

"My behavior was unconscionable," Hughes said, talking right over Hogan. He stared at his hands as he spoke. "The moment he saw us, waiting for him outside the cooler, he knew he was in trouble. I could tell. He wasn't afraid, though. Not then he wasn't. That came later. He tried to make a break for the barracks, but we were too quick for him. He was usually rather slippery, but I was so pleased his stay in the cooler had weakened him so that he couldn't escape. Wells and Mitchell, well, they dragged him to the showers, fighting all the way to keep him under control. I followed behind…smug. So pleased to see his useless struggles. He still wasn't afraid when they shoved him through the door and he tripped, falling to his hands and knees. He was more angry than anything. Cursing and still trying to get away, but not afraid. But then the men started ripping the filthy rags off of him. He fought like a trapped animal, which of course I thought was fitting. I thought less of him than I did a stray dog. He did all he could to throw the lads off, but they soon had him stripped and pinned face down on the floor. _That_ was when I finally could hear the fear in his voice. He was trying to hide it, but I positively gloated when I heard the first crack as he continued to curse us. He was terrified of what we had planned for him next, and I was _glad_ of it."

"Hughes…" growled Hogan, "You can stop right there. My imagination can fill in the blanks just _fine_, thank you. I don't need to hear you describe it." Hogan knew where this story was going and he couldn't bear hearing the details. He had always wondered in the back of his mind if they had done something more to Newkirk, but he knew he'd be unable to contain his rage if he heard confirmation of it.

"But I…"

"Can it!"

Hughes paused in his recitation and finally seemed to see Hogan. Saw the fury and disgust on his face and rightly read what caused it. "Oh…oh…no! No, we didn't…well, you know, abuse him. We're not animals!"

"Really?" snapped Hogan, having a hard time tamping down his anger and not sure he believed the man.

"No! No! I mean… yes…yes, I suppose I am. I am an animal for what I _did_ do, but we didn't do anything _depraved_."

Hogan stared at Hughes for a long moment, evaluating. Then he felt his muscles loosen as he saw the truth in Hughes' face, a trickle of relief oozing through him as he confirmed that Newkirk hadn't suffered worse than a beating. However, his anger was still simmering as Hughes began to speak again.

Hughes ducked his head, flushing in shame. "I felt so triumphant as I saw him on that cold floor, trying to get away but helpless to do so. He was finally where I wanted and I reveled in it." He took a deep breath and again faced Hogan, looking desperate to unburden himself of all he'd done. "I crouched down in front of him and grabbed him by the hair, making him look at me. There was pure hatred in his eyes, but under it all was a deepening panic. I have never ever felt such satisfaction in my life. And to my everlasting shame, it wasn't just his imagination causing him to fear. The men and…and yes, I as well…were taunting him with the deviant things we were going to do."

When Hogan inhaled deeply and started to say something, Hughes countered quickly, "No…as I said we didn't do _that_. And none of us actually planned to go through with any of it, but words can be a powerful weapon and we knew how to wield them to great effect. I wanted him to be terrified and made sure he was." Hughes swallowed audibly before getting back on track with his confession. "In fact, I never planned to beat him, you know, but lost control of myself. He couldn't have known, of course, but in his shouting and cursing, the corporal said something…something that set me off. He'd been threatening us, naturally, but I didn't care. However at one point he got around to threatening our families. Our parents. Our wives. Our brothers. Our sisters... And I…when he said that all I could think of was what he'd already done to my sweet Louise. All I could see was that filthy, disgusting man laying his hands on her. I didn't have a single conscious thought before I had my belt in my hands and was shoving Wells off so I could beat the loathsome creature senseless."

Hughes stopped his recitation for a long minute while looking like he was gathering strength, then looked at Hogan before continuing, his voice positively self-loathing. "He still tried to get away, but it was useless of course. One of the lads took his arms and the other his legs and held him down while I used my belt on him. As I struck him again and again I was shouting. Releasing my anger with all sorts of vile imprecations—shouting what a disgusting, useless cur he was and that the only way to deal with filth like that was to beat the obedience from him…that animals needed a master to keep them under control. I…I would have killed him, but Wells eventually stopped me. Not because he cared about the corporal, he said, but because we would be punished if he was found dead. I suppose I should be grateful for some small mercy that he was strong enough to pull me away."

Hughes looked down at his hands once again, studying them as if to remember those same hands wielding his belt as a vicious weapon against a helpless man.

"So you see why I can never forgive myself? Every one of those bruises and lashes _I_ put there. Me. To a man who should have been in my care—a man who helped someone dear to me. He beaten nearly to death and all I wanted was to be the executioner." Hughes inhaled shakily. "When I was done the men took care of everything else. They threw him under the shower—cold of course—scrubbed him with those long brushes, shaved his head, made sure none of the wounds were bleeding enough to show, and dressed him in some clothes we'd received from the guards. By then he was a stringless puppet in their hands. Didn't fight. Didn't say anything. I don't know if it was the beating or the cold that finally subdued him, but I was frankly annoyed that we couldn't get any more reaction from him. It was all I could do to stop myself from beating him again. God help me I wanted him to suffer more..."

Hogan turned away from Hughes when the man's words faded. He walked rapidly to his bunk and grabbed the rails hard, needing it to prevent himself from taking a swing. Hughes really hadn't told him anything he couldn't have guessed, but during the recitation Hogan couldn't help but imagine himself in Newkirk's position: weak, helpless, afraid, brutally beaten, then handled as if he were so much trash. What had been going on in his mind? Had he believed in some way he deserved it? What sort of terror had he experienced when he thought the men were going to do something worse than a beating? How had he managed to come through it all and not hate the world?

He abruptly turned around and said to Hughes, "You stay here. Don't leave. Don't talk to anyone. I'm gonna make sure Newkirk's okay. Then when I come back we'll talk."

As Hogan left his room, he realized he hadn't told Hughes the truth. Right now he really didn't want to see Newkirk. Wasn't sure he could control his anger if he did.

Luck was on his side, for when he glanced around the barracks, Hogan realized that a couple of the men were missing, Chapman, and most importantly, Newkirk.

"He went out," announced Kinch, causing Hogan to swing his gaze to the tall man. "Shot out of your room like a bat out of hell, stuck around for a few minutes, then said he was going to get some air. Chapman went after him with his coat."

Kinch's last sentence ended on a questioning note, asking what had happened to his friend _this_ time. Most of the rest of the barracks' residents were also looking at Hogan for answers, but this story wasn't something he was going to share with them. It was a matter for him, as the commander, and as much as he appreciated their concern it simply wasn't their business.

"Thanks, Kinch." Hogan nodded, then looked around with a frown, wanting some air as well. Sometimes a man needed to be alone to _think_. Just as he decided to go out, though, he stopped, realizing he'd have to go back to his room to get a coat—not worth it to face Hughes. Let him sit in there alone stewing in his own guilt. He deserved it. Instead Hogan decided to just stop thinking about the whole sorry mess for awhile and enjoy the company of the men. He poured himself a cup of coffee and plopped down at the table, willing to give himself a break while he calmed down.

-o-o-o-

It was over an hour later than Chapman and Newkirk returned. An hour during which Hogan received any number of subtle and not-so-subtle attempts from the men to learn what was going on. Hogan rebuffed them all as casually as possible at first, then finally resorted to an outright order to mind their own business. He didn't like to pull the rank card unless it was required, but this was one of those times when he was glad he didn't have to put up with endless questioning if he didn't feel like it.

When Newkirk and Chapman finally did return, Hogan was pleased that Newkirk himself diffused the tension in the room with his own brand of evasiveness and snark.

"Newkirk, you okay?"

"Mon ami, what has happened?"

"Did he do something to ya?"

The object of the verbal barrage stopped in his tracks and shook his head.

"What's with you lot? I go out for a smoke and you turn into a bunch o' nervous ninnies. There's nothing wrong with me."

"But you left so fast."

"You forgot your coat."

"You didn't say anything."

Newkirk walked over to his bunk and took off said coat before grabbing up his pack of cards and sitting down at the table. He briefly locked eyes with Hogan as if confirming that nothing had been said before declaring, "Since when do I need you lot to be lookin' after me? I was 'ot you bunch of gits! You ever been alone with two officers talking at you at the same time? I was sweating by the time I left and wanted to cool off."

The implications of his statement seemed to hit the men at the same time. Concern melted to realization to irritation and the chatter was suddenly silenced.

Carter was the one to finally break it. "You mean you got in trouble? What did you do?"

Newkirk wasn't the only one to roll his eyes at Carter. There were some things you just didn't ask a fellow unless they made it clear they wanted to talk about it.

"What's it to you?" asked Chapman, putting away his own coat, finally speaking up. "A man doesn't need to share every dressing down 'e gets, now does 'e?"

Chapman's question was an even better way to shut down the men. The inhabitants of Barracks 2 knew Newkirk well enough to know that there were times that he deserved a good talking-to. If Newkirk seemed to accept whatever Hogan and Hughes had been saying to him and Chapman wasn't angry on his behalf, they knew they should back off and allow him his privacy.

Hogan also noted Chapman's word choice. He didn't necessarily _say_ Newkirk had been reprimanded, just implied it. Chapman was either very clever with his words, or Newkirk had spun a tale for him as well.

Catching a quick bit of silent communication between Newkirk and Chapman answered that question for Hogan. Yes, Newkirk had told his fellow Cockney the real story, but didn't want to talk about it with the others so Chapman was covering for him. It made Hogan all the more glad he hadn't shared any of it with the others. This was Newkirk's and Hughes' story. It was up to them to reveal any or all of it and Hogan would respect their privacy.

Content with the way Newkirk had dealt with the situation, Hogan decided it was time to see how the other party in this awful misunderstanding was faring.

-o-o-o-

Three days later while standing in formation, Hogan reflected on his conversation with Hughes. It had been, in a word, frustrating. Hughes was sorry. He was a bad human being. He was worthless. He deserved to be horsewhipped. He was worse than a criminal. He was…fill in the blank. Basically he was so full of self-flagellation that Hogan hadn't been able to express his own anger with Hughes' actions since Hughes himself was all too willing to accept any and all blame for what he'd done. Even worse, since that day Hughes had been so eager to make up for things that he'd been following everything Hogan said to the letter. It was nice that Hughes was being cooperative, but there was such a thing as going overboard. Hogan was pretty sure if he'd told the man he had to howl his remorse to the moon every night at midnight, he would have found him sneaking out of the barracks to do just that. It wasn't that Hogan wasn't glad that Hughes was trying to make amends. It was just that he wanted Hughes to take responsibility for his actions like a man and find his own way to atone—not obeying every word Hogan uttered as if doing penance. Hogan wasn't a priest, after all, and he didn't want to be thinking for other men, especially not now when the rest of his plans were starting to come together at a shockingly rapid pace.

Just yesterday, two days after his discussion with Hughes, the tunnel to the outside had finally been completed. Yes, finished. They'd broken through to the surface in the wooded area just outside the camp, and under the cover of darkness the men had all taken turns poking their heads out and experiencing "freedom." They were still looking for a good way to disguise the entrance, but that was just mechanics. It was done. The men could leave the camp if they wanted. The effect of the tunnel on the men had been incredible. Knowing they could leave seemed to give them a sense that they were no longer prisoners—now remaining in the camp was a _choice,_ and staying was something they did because they wanted to fight the war from within Germany, not because the enemy was controlling their every move.

And now with the tunnel finished, they were just waiting for Schnitzer's next visit so they could arrange a meeting with the Underground, discuss getting radio parts delivered, and finally make contact with London. Hogan and his men were working around the clock to get everything in order for their first assignment and the speculation on what that would be was the subject of a hefty betting pool.

Yeah, Hogan breathed in the cold air with satisfaction. Frustration with Hughes aside, things were finally where Hogan wanted them to be. The plans were coming together, the Germans were still completely in the dark, they were just on the cusp of some exciting and potentially war-changing missions, and the men were happy and healthy. Hogan had never thought he could be so content in a POW camp.

-o-o-o-

A/N: Short(ish) chapter getting ready for the finale. Only one to go! Hope everyone is having/had a Happy Thanksgiving!


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